


A New Drink, Honey-Sweet

by GreenBird



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Background Het, Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Confessions, Crying, Dirty Talk, Explicit Consent, F/M, Fisting, Friends to Lovers, Gentle Dom Jaskier | Dandelion, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Minor Violence, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Oral Sex, Rimming, Sex Work, Slow Burn, Top Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:14:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 48,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24550654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreenBird/pseuds/GreenBird
Summary: “They had been told, as young witchers, that the burden of their secondary sex had been relieved by the Trial of Grasses. The mutations took away the change that would come as humans hit adulthood, and they would be without a subsex. Witchers were men, and men alone. They were not given the added burden of being an alpha, or an omega, or a beta. They were free from that particular form of madness.“Jaskier is hired to be a heat companion for an omega widow, and Geralt is hired alongside him to play bodyguard. Unfortunately, being so close to the chaos that is human mating cycles, Geralt begins to suffer strange symptoms of his own.Trust Jaskier to take care of it. He’s a professional, after all.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion/Other(s)
Comments: 319
Kudos: 1254
Collections: Good Relationship Etiquette (familial included) - or Good BDSM Etiquette - or Good Relationship and BDSM Etiquette





	1. The Season

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stfustucky (iwillpaintasongforlou)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iwillpaintasongforlou/gifts).



> I cannot believe I wrote an A/B/O. I hate A/B/O. Saying that, this is going to be a very non-typical A/B/O and it’s going to address a lot of things not normally touched on. Hopefully it still pleases fans of A/B/O and newcomers alike.  
> Anyway, enjoy a confused and horny Geralt and his gigolo boyfriend.

Beautiful lettering by stfustucky, who this fic is for. 

* * *

As long as he could remember, Geralt knew that when the lilacs bloomed, it was time to shy away to the woods for a week or two, and avoid all manner of human contact. He normally scheduled the spring sabbatical alongside a longer contract, or planned to examine a set of ruins that was rumored to hold some useful information for his profession, but this year was different.

Instead of hiding away in the woods, safe from the chaos that unfolded in the spring, Geralt was now camping out in a widow’s barn in southern Redania.

It was Jaskier’s fault, of course. The bard had convinced him they should spend the winter together, and Jaskier managed to have enough in his purse to keep them from camping in the snow. They traveled sparingly and drank in excess, renting empty cabins and staying in whatever inn they could afford. Geralt only took jobs that required the bare minimum of trudging through the snow, as the loss of good footing would lead to a quick death, and leant on the bard’s skills and good graces to keep him warm and fed. 

It was Jaskier’s skills and good graces that had Geralt now playing bodyguard on a flourishing farmstead, instead of hiding away from the mess that unfolded amongst humanity in the midst of spring.

They had been told, as young witchers, that the burden of their secondary sex had been relieved by the Trial of Grasses. The mutations took away the change that would come as humans hit adulthood, and they would be without a subsex. Witchers were men, and men alone. They were not given the added burden of being an alpha, or an omega, or a beta. They were free from that particular form of madness.

It was the one positive thing about being a witcher. 

When Geralt started on the Path, he knew, academically, what a subsex was and how it affected humans. His teachers had assigned a mass of reading to study. He knew that these traits were primarily dormant, but could be troublesome in times of high emotion. He knew that humans could pair and bond and be in tune with each other’s hormonal changes. He knew that some forms of subsex and primary sex were rare, and that some were common. He knew that it helped with fertility and reproduction. What he hadn’t been prepared for was that, in spring, humans went absolutely insane.

Geralt knew the smell of an omega in estrus from a good distance away, and turned tail at a whiff of it. The omegas started first, their heat coming in the late spring, and the alphas would be kicked into rut in response. His teachers had always warned them to stay away from humans during this time, and to never engage with one sexually. It was a dangerous game to play, and consent was questionable with all the hormones that drugged the humans at the time. A witcher needed to be responsible and avoid the entire ordeal. 

Geralt had lurked around a town as a young witcher during a Season, and he had only done it once. The smells were overpowering, nauseating. There was sex and aggression and anger everywhere. Unbonded alphas were absolute terrors, and omegas driven into desperation were a sad sight. He hated seeing it, and steered clear ever since.

The only balm that the affected humans had during the Season was the comfort of betas. Betas were the calm amidst chaos. They were the hormonally flexible subsex, the space in between alphas and omegas. A beta could soothe an alpha and satisfy an omega. They kept a level head during the Season, and didn’t have the same panicked scent as the other two subsexes.

It was part of the reason Geralt found it so easy to be with Jaskier: he never stank of alpha or omega pheromones.

He’d known, for years now, that Jaskier lent his services during the Season. At first he would smell it when they reunited some week or so afterward, and the large amount of money Jaskier would be carrying post spring was suspicious. The bard admitted it happily, and would tell Geralt, in flowery and vague language, how adored he was by his patrons. A decade earlier Geralt would have doubted the bard’s skill set in bed, but he had sharp ears, and rumors flew. Women and men would whisper to each other at the sight of him. 

“ _That’s the one, that’s the beta Delina told me about. She said she’s never felt more safe and satiated in her life. He stayed with her the whole week! As soon as my husband dies, I’m hiring him!”_

Jaskier the gigolo, the beta escort who was infamous for his songs and his services. Geralt was happy for the financial relief it afforded him, and as long as Jaskier was safe and not being hunted by vengeful cuckhold spouses, it was none of his business.

That was, of course, until Jaskier asked him to make it his business.

“She’s nervous about intruders, is the thing,” Jaskier had said a few days before, walking by Geralt’s side as they neared where the employer lived. “I met her last year at a festival- she’s a talented brewer, her mead is fantastic. You will love it. Anyway, her husband passed two years ago and she hasn’t remarried.” 

A single, middle-aged omega woman on a farmstead was a beacon for trouble come the Season. Alphas would hunt her down and not care about her consent. Geralt’s skin prickled at the thought, and Jaskier explained further. 

“She has two sons, not yet presenting, and you can imagine she would be loath to have them around while she is out of her mind. She said she’ll be sending them to her sister’s, also a beta thank goodness, and that she needs protection and assistance. In other words, you and I!”

It was an easy job, Geralt admitted. All he had to do was make sure that no one tried to harass her, and maybe fetch water for them and feed her horses. The beehives could be left to their own devices for a week and there was no mead actively being made at the time. The money was good and the work was minuscule. There was also, of course, a hearty amount of well-crafted mead at his disposal. He wasn’t stupid enough to turn it down. Jaskier was the one with the actual work to do.

Now, three days in, Geralt was aware of how much work that actually was. The sounds and smells of sex wafted from the house almost without end. His damned witcher senses made the extent of it worse; he could hear Jaskier gasping for breath if the windows were open, smell it when he came. The widow, Marla, was not a quiet woman, and twice Geralt had been startled awake by her screaming in orgasm. 

What started off as a very lazy job for Geralt became a more active job out of necessity. He hauled buckets of water to the house twice daily, leaving them inside the door for the very busy inhabitants. He walked the property each morning and evening, checked the hives, brushed and exercised the horses, milked the two nanny goats and diligently brought them in and out of pasture at night. He went through sword exercises, sharpened, oiled and repaired every single thing he owned, bathed in the laundry tub like a vagabond, coddled and talked to Roach as much as she could stand, and he was still restless. 

It wasn’t that he was ashamed of himself for feeling aroused and on edge- it made sense. He was a man of high libido, and it had been a month since he had haunted a brothel. Hearing and smelling a lot of sex was bound to affect him. It was what that sex was spurred by that bothered him. Estrus was a curse to omegas: it took away control and consent. It was a remnant of a cruel history, and not something for him to leer at.

By the time the fourth day hit Geralt was losing his temper. He needed to take a long walk about the property after his morning routine. He’d eaten and turned the animals out, and all he had left to do was bring a bucket of water up to the house so that Jaskier, in a moment of reprieve, could fetch it from the entryway and keep hydrated. 

Geralt stomped up the steps to the door, noting that the windows were still closed. There was movement in the region of the kitchen, but more subdued. Maybe Jaskier was up to feed himself. Marla wouldn’t eat until her estrus was through, but Jaskier was not going to stay conscious if he did the same. 

Geralt carefully cracked open the door, readying himself for the smell that would hit him. The mix of musk and sweat was like a slap to the face, both sweet and heavy. He blinked rapidly, huffing short breaths to try to alleviate the intensity, and bent down to set the bucket on the floor. An empty bucket was a few feet further; the used one from last night. Geralt took another step in to reach it, and a gasp and rhythmic thump drew his eyes up. 

Cleared from the entryway, he could see into the kitchen. Jaskier’s breakfast had apparently been interrupted. Marla was bent over the table, sprawling naked on the plate the bard had apparently been eating from. Jaskier was behind her, steady at work. He looked dazed, sex drunk and exhausted, but the rhythm of his hips was unfaltering, and Marla seemed very pleased by the performance.

It wasn’t that Geralt hadn’t seen this before: he and Jaskier had been together long enough to see quite a lot of each other. He’d seen the bard fucking at a brothel before now, but this wasn’t through the haze of a smoky room filled with other bodies. This was four paces in front of him with nothing but a kitchen table in the way.

Jaskier was obviously worn weary, his eyes closed and mouth open in ragged gasps, but he was not faltering in the slightest. His bare chest gleamed with sweat. His hair tousled and messy. The pair of them were breathing heavily, and Marla was moaning sweet praises from where she was laying against the tabletop. 

Geralt knew he should have left the second he caught a glimpse of skin, but the entryway was dark and the two of them were completely unaware of his presence. His fist closed loosely around the rope handle of the empty bucket, and he hadn’t yet straightened from where he reached to grab it. He’d frozen like a damned deer at the sight of his friend fucking their employer. 

Marla was the one who startled Geralt into movement. Apparently Jaskier’s sense of rhythm did well for her and she let loose a broken cry, reaching back to clasp Jaskier’s hand on her hip, entwining their fingers as she shook apart with her orgasm. Jaskier heaved a gasp and murmured to her.

“That’s it. You’re okay,” he purred, voice low and gentle. “It’s alright I’ve got you.”

Geralt swallowed harshly and jerked back, yanking the door open and retreating as quickly as possible. He took the stairs two at a time, rushing back to the well in the yard and leaving the scene behind him. A second bucket he’d filled for the horse trough sat on the rim on the well. He dove his hands into it and splashed them back up, wetting his face and scrubbing it viciously. 

He needed to take a walk. 

* * *

  
  


Marla’s property included the field for her goats and horses, the hives she harvested and an array of wildflowers to feed her bees. The unique taste of her mead, Jaskier had told him, came from the flowers her bees fed on. The honey wine was sweet and luxurious, and Geralt tried not to gulp from the bottle he was carrying on him too greedily. He didn’t want to drink the woman out of her stores before the week’s end. 

He’d circled the property twice, not noticing any sign of interruption. Marla was reasonable to think that there may have been: it was known that she was a widow omega, and that she was unbonded. If a curr of an alpha felt so inclined, he could force a bond on her and try to take her lands. Her sons were nearly grown, but not old enough to defend her. Having a bodyguard was a decent idea.

Geralt walked down the one-cart track that led to her homestead. It joined onto a wider road that led to town. As he reached the crossroad Geralt took a moment to stop and listen. A horse and rider had recently passed, the manure still fresh. An unaffected beta. No problem, there. He stood silent for a moment, and made to turn back when a pair of voices echoed down the road.

Geralt stepped into the tree line, partially hidden in the shadows of the late morning, and waited. Two men were making their way down the road, loudly arguing at each other. As they neared, Geralt’s skin prickled in agitation. This was exactly what he didn’t want to come across; rogue alphas. He smelled them first, the acrid stink of their ruts curling his lip into a snarl. They were obviously on edge, horny and bothered and lonely, roaming the road. If they passed by without trouble, Geralt wouldn’t bother with them.

The pair came into sight, loud and brash. They were both in their thirties, one tall and a bit gangly and the other thick around the waist with a full beard. They nearly passed the branching path to the property, but one stopped and stared at the sign on the road.

“Clover and Yarrow Meadery,” the taller one read. “That was Thomas’s place, yeah?”

“Yeah,” his companion answered, fidgeting, “good brew.”

 _Keep moving_ , Geralt thought.

The alphas shifted and flexed, as if their skin was too tight for their bodies. “Say,” the first continued, “his widow still runs the works, yeah?”

“Her and her sons do I think, I don’t know.”

The taller leered at his companion, all teeth. Geralt felt his whole body tense at the action. “She’s an omega. Older, but I bet she still gets slick.” The other grunted and nodded, licking his lips at the idea. “She’d be all alone, wanting a knot with no one but her sons to ignore her cries.”

“I bet she would love some company,” his friend agreed.

“She’s lucky we came on by.”

The two of them veered off the road, walking almost within reach of Geralt. They took a few strides up the path and Geralt moved quietly around and intercepted them, stepping into view.

“Turn around,” he growled, shoulders back and head high. Alphas were prone to fight, and even more idiotic under rut then they normally were. Nearly every time Geralt had been challenged to a bar fight, a drunk alpha was to blame. If he made himself look as intimidating as possible, he could perhaps scare them off. 

“What the fuck?” Barked one of them, stepping back and squaring up. He showed his teeth immediately, a harmless gesture when humans no longer had fangs. Good thing Geralt did. The flash of sharp witcher teeth was much more daunting. 

“Turn around, and go on your way,” Geralt said, clear and low. 

“What’s it your business, eh, eunich?” The thicker man said, standing next to his friend. “You thinking of getting in on some wet omega pussy? Thought you lot were broken that way.”

“Maybe he wants sloppy thirds, eh?” The other said. His breath was foul and the heavy stink of his rut was worse than a drowner’s guts. “Maybe he wants to see how real alphas fuck a bitch omega. What do you say, freak? Want to get your cock wet?” Geralt widened his snarl at the implication that he would be just as happy to rape a woman as these two. The fangs he normally kept from displaying were clear and gleaming, and he enjoyed the worried look that ghosted on one man’s face.

“This is the last time I will tell you: turn around or I will turn you.”

A normal man would realize he was not a match for a mutant and leave straight away. He may cuss and posture, but he would retreat. Unfortunately for these men, they were not in a normal state of mind. 

Geralt caught the first swing in an iron grip and used it to twist one man into the other. He brought the other fist up to crack the tall man in the nose, breaking it with a swift, decisive movement. Blood burst from his nose and lips like a fount, and he staggered back, disoriented. The stout man corrected his posture from where Geralt had shoved him and rushed him, attempting a tackle. Geralt stepped aside and snagged the back of his shirt as the man flailed past him, spun about using the momentum of his fall, and tossed him into his friend.

The alphas were snarling and crazed, one bleeding and the other embarrassed at how easily he was handled. 

“You fucking freak,” the bearded man yelled, coming towards Geralt again. The alpha managed to block a punch, but was winded when Geralt brought a knee up hard into his gut. His friend came forward again, broken nose leaking everywhere, and Geralt knocked the short man out with a quick elbow to the back of his neck as he bent over, wheezing.

The taller alpha struck out again, a wide haymaker, but Geralt caught his arm and threatened to snap his elbow inward with the pressure in the lock. 

“Take your friend, and get lost,” Geralt snarled, eyes wild and teeth snapping. The alpha roared and struggled, punching uselessly at Geralt’s side. It barely registered. The witcher grabbed the man by his lanky, thinning hair and shook him hard.

“Are you going to listen?” He shouted over the alpha’s inhuman noises. The man was fevered and unhinged, the madness of rut and the prospect of an omega driving him insane. Geralt sighed and cracked him hard against the temple, putting him out. 

He hated the idea of touching the stinking, unconscious men, but he needed to get them off the path to the meadery. Grabbing them both by an arm, he dragged their listless bodies to the main road, and headed towards town. He didn’t go far, just walked until he saw an appropriate ditch and rolled them both into it. They would wake in a few hours, aching and exhausted from their rut pushing them into a fight. Geralt made sure they were laying on their sides so they wouldn’t choke on any blood or vomit. 

He frowned and wiped his hands off on his pants. Geralt would need to wash to get their scent off of him. He’d gone easier than usual on would-be-rapists: it wasn’t as if the men chose to go mad. Secondary sex was a curse. It made men and women mad with lust, took away their reasoning and their agency. It was one thing he was so very thankful for losing with his mutation. The idea of being like these men, brainless and beastly, ready to rape a woman so they could ease their ruts, was revolting.

Back at the house, Geralt drew more water and filled the laundry tub. He didn’t bother soaking or enjoying it: he needed to be clean. The flustered feeling that had burdened him that morning was long gone, replaced with disgust and worry. Marla had been right to hire him. If it was just she and Jaskier, they would have both been attacked. 

Geralt felt his stomach turn at the idea. Jaskier was alright in a fight, but he would have been exhausted and easily overpowered. The alphas would have taken Marla and perhaps even Jaskier, too. He was a beta; they were flexible. While one alpha was rutting away at Marla the other could have forced Jaskier to his knees, could have used him just the same.

Geralt realized he was growling lowly, flexing his hands at the prospect of going back and strangling the men in the ditch for a crime they didn’t, and would not be able to, commit. He needed to calm down and meditate. The house was quiet behind him, the pair most likely catching a quick nap between sessions. 

Washed and redressed, Geralt moved to the barn and knelt on the bedroll he had spread over some straw. It was mid afternoon now. He would meditate, then call in the animals, feed and brush the horses, milk the goats before they bedded down. He needed to settle his mind and keep on task, not draw disastrous scenarios in his head. 

Geralt breathed deep, relishing the fact that all he could smell at the moment was straw and horses, and drifted.

* * *

  
  


The witcher stirred again as evening came on, and took a brief walk in the meadow, shooting a pheasant in the tall grasses. He plucked it as he returned to the house, then cleaned and tied it to a spit over his cook fire. The process was second nature to him, done again and again on the road over the decades. It was nearly a mantra.

The still spell was over soon, however. The door to the house opened, and Geralt looked up from his fire to see Jaskier, ass naked, coming down the steps. The bard was walking on boneless legs, swaying and shaky. The smell of him was overpowering, and Geralt breathed through his mouth as he turned the bird over the fire.

“Hello,” Jaskier said, voice haggard. “Is that…” he spotted the laundry tub, still filled with Geralt’s old bath water, and made his way over to it. “Fuck, thank the gods.”

He plopped himself into the water, heedless of its chill. If anything, he relished it, groaning and splashing himself. 

“Soap is on your left,” Geralt commented, amused by the haphazard bathing. Jaskier grabbed at it and scrubbed himself vigorously. Normally the bard would be rambling on about something, giddy from the sex and eager to wax poetic. There was none of that now, just wordless noises as he sloshed around.

“Alright there?” Geralt asked, trying to mask his amusement. Jaskier hadn’t left the house in four days, and now that he did he looked like a wreck.

The bard glared at him balefully from the wash bin. “What are you cooking?”

“Pheasant.”

Jaskier moaned, even louder than Geralt had heard echoing from the windows earlier. Geralt could hear the rolling grumble of the bard’s stomach. “Can I have some?”

He turned the bird again, sniffed to check if it was done. Nearly there. “She’s not letting you eat?”

Jaskier stood up, shameless, dripping water. “Fuck, Geralt,”’ he said, stepping out of the tub. “She’s not letting me do anything but plumb her depths,” he complained. “I knew Marla was fiery but I may die.”

The smile threatening his lips pulled a little harder. He knew Jaskier could see it now, if he couldn’t already hear it in his voice. “That bad?”

“We’re past the worst of it,” Jaskier said, shaking his hair out and combing it through with his fingers. There were bite marks on his chest. “She’s on the downturn. Maybe two days, maybe one. This is a long one. I don't think I’ve had a client go six days.” He heaved a sigh. There were bags under his eyes. “May menopause bless her soon.”

Geralt didn’t bother holding his laugh any longer. Jaskier finally spotted the towel he had hung on the barn door and took it, wiping himself dry. He hissed when he reached his groin, and Geralt laughed again. 

“Shut it,” Jaskier snapped. “You fuck someone near constantly for four days, and then tell me you dont chafe a bit. Gods I am nearly out of oil and I need a salve.” Jaskier helped himself to Geralt's drying shirt, yanking it on. It hung to mid-thigh, giving him some modesty.

“Sorry, all of mine are in the house,” Jaskier said. He didn’t sound sorry in the slightest, and wobbled his way back to the fire, sinking down to sit next to Geralt. “Feed me, I’m starving to death.”

Geralt pulled the pheasant off the fire, then worked on carving it, cutting away meat and handing over bites for Jaskier to pluck from the blade. He ate voraciously, gulping the meat down and praising the taste, as if it weren’t plain roast pheasant. 

The food seemed to bring the bard back to life, and Jaskier began to rattle on about a town they would hit in a few weeks, how the baker there was a god of pastries. Geralt only marginally listened, but enjoyed the babble. Jaskier didn’t smell saturated in sex any more, and the rich lusty smell of his clean skin was close to his usual scent. 

They finished the bird together, fingers greasy and bellies full. Geralt would sleep better on a full stomach. Next to him Jaskier hummed and shifted, a wince interrupting his post-meal fugue.

“I have a salve that may help,” Geralt said, doing his best not to laugh at Jaskier’s predicament.

“You do? It’s not going to burn my cock off, is it?” 

That was a fair question. A lot of what was in Geralt’s supplies would burn a human’s skin. The witcher heaved himself up, laden with a full meal, and walked to his pack just inside the barn door. The salve was for burns and abrasions, with some herbs added for cooling. It was one of the few liniments he had collected over the years that he could use on Jaskier.

“It’s human safe,” Geralt said, tossing the small jar to Jaskier, who yelped and caught it. “Lanolin based.”

Jaskier popped the lid and smelled it. His face lit up. “You’re a hero,” he said. “This will literally save my bits.”

Geralt shrugged, grabbed a bottle of mead he had been sipping on, and wandered back to the fire. Jaskier reached for the bottle immediately, and Geralt relented.

“Anyway,” Jaskier said between gulps, “how are you doing? Sorry if the job is boring for you, but I really appreciate the help.”

Geralt took the bottle back. “Not boring. I just knocked out two roaming alphas today who were keen on coming up here.”

Jaskier balked at that, alarmed. “You did? Oh gods thank you.”

Geralt quirked a brow at him. “Doing my job.”

Jaskier laughed and leaned back, stretching. The shirt barely covered him and was unlaced at the neck, the black fabric stark against his skin. It somehow looked more obscene than when he was stumbling around naked.

The moment was interrupted by a plaintive voice, echoing from the house. “Jaskier?”

Geralt huffed a laugh. “Looks like you need to go do yours.”

Jaskier groaned and rolled over, dragging himself to his feet. He looked down at Geralt’s shirt, considering, then pulled it off and tossed it to him unceremoniously.

“She’s just going to rip it,” he explained, making his way back to the house, naked with only a jar of ointment in hand. “Like I said, fiery.”

Geralt smiled into the bottle as he heard Jaskier stumble up the steps, muttering to himself in an effort to rally. Even a witcher’s stamina would be sorely tested at this point. 

“Goodnight Geralt,” he called from the door, voice still sing-song.

“Don’t lose your cock, Jaskier,” he replied, tipping the bottle again.

Jaskier laughed, and went back inside.


	2. Strange Happenings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh thank you everyone for your comments so far! Let’s see what our companions get up to next.

True to his prediction, the next day was less active, and the moans and grunts from the house were fewer and further in between. Geralt kept up with his duties, letting the animals out to pasture, tending to the menial chores. When he went to deliver the water, Jaskier was actually dressed and alert, waving him into the house and speaking in a low tone.

“She’ll be done today, no doubt about it,” he said, gesturing over to the bedroom where Geralt could hear Marla’s even, sleeping breaths. “Would you mind maybe making some extra dinner?” Jaskier combed his fingers through his hair. He looked like he needed a rest as well. The house still stank of sex and estrus, but it wasn’t as thick as the day before. “She’s going to be hungry as all hell, but I guarantee you after she eats it’ll be over. Then she’ll sleep like the dead and we can send for her sons.”

Geralt agreed, and set off to do his check. On his walk of the grounds he discovered another alpha, this one an older man, tired and dazed. Geralt pointed him off the property and towards town. The man muttered and did not argue, even thanking him for directions. He was most likely coming off his surge of hormones, and had just gotten lost in his hangover.

Geralt didn’t want to know what an incident like this looked like in a city. Several places had strict curfew and limitations on movement for non-betas. Lambert told him Novigrad went into literal lockdown. The idea of being in a city when all the people where fucking and smelling like crazed animals was beyond unappealing.

In the eastern field Geralt spotted a few deer amongst the wildflowers. He picked a young buck, avoiding the does. They would have fawns hidden in the tall grasses, and he did not want to make an orphan. The buck was a quick kill, and Geralt field dressed it and slung it over his shoulders. Its blood wetted the back of his shirt down to his pants. There would be a lot of laundry today with Marla and Jaskier finally giving out. His shirt could go in the mix. 

Geralt made quick work of the deer, skinning it and nailing the hide to the side of the barn so it could be scraped and salted later. He cleaned the easiest cuts off the bone, laying them out in a large iron skillet he’d stolen from the house, and added cubes of fat for flavor. He could smoke some jerky for the road, and leave the rest in Marla’s cold cellar for her sons to deal with. 

He set the skillet in the cook fire, reawakening the embers from the night before and let it roast. Geralt could eat venison raw, but since Jaskier had asked so nicely, he threw some onions, turnips and herbs into the pan. 

Laundry was the next affair, and when Geralt shouted through the door for Jaskier to toss the used linens, he regretted it almost immediately. The pile that was thrown at him was enormous and foul. Sheets and towels and clothing, all smelling of sweat and slick and spend. Geralt tried to breathe through his mouth as it seeped into him, sending a strange shiver down his spine. He filled the tub and heated the water to a near boil, determined to burn away what filth he could. Geralt tried not to get annoyed at the amount of scrubbing needed. This was part of the job, and certainly not any worse than sifting through monster guts.

The sound of a lute’s strumming danced from the house, mixed with Jaskier’s soft singing. Geralt enjoyed a noise other than fucking as he worked through the mess.

It was well into the afternoon when he saw Jaskier again. The bard wobbled down the steps, trying his best to help Marla, who was even worse for wear behind him. He had plates and utensils tucked under his arm.

Geralt tightened his lips to avoid laughing, but they both looked horrendous. He would have to bring Marla some water for her bath in the house. The poor woman looked as though she had been dragged through a hedge, backwards.

“Come and eat,” Geralt said, rolling up another log for Marla to sit on. He did most of the work of cutting and serving. His dinner guests were nearly useless.

Marla ate like she was dying, and Geralt couldn’t blame her: five days without food was too long, even for him. Jaskier pepped up as he ate, starting a one-sided conversation with Geralt about the differences in mead brewing versus beer brewing. The witcher was pleased to have some sort of stimulus that didn’t revolve around chores and listening to people fuck.

After a while Marla stood, wiped her hand across her face and sighed. “I’m going to bed,” she announced. Her voice was breathy and blown out. “Don’t bother me until I wake up, gentlemen.”

Jaskier agreed, then gave himself a quick sniff and pulled a face. “I need another bath.”

“Want to get in with the shirt I’m soaking?” Geralt asked, cleaning up the meal. Jaskier peered into the laundry tub.

“Why is there blood in there, Geralt? I’m not getting in there with your bloody shirt.” 

“You wanted a big meal. Needed to kill a big meal.”

Jaskier pulled a face and went over to the well instead, stripping down and upending a bucket over his head. Geralt went to tend to his shirt and threw the soap at him.

Landry hung to dry and meal put away, Geralt went to tend to the animals, letting them in the stables for the night. As he came back towards the house, Jaskier was trying to pry the door open to no avail.

“She locked the door!” He said, affronted. He put his hands to his hips and tossed his head dramatically. Geralt bit down on his smile as Jaskier turned towards him. “Isn’t that just the way? Once you’re done with a man, toss him out!” He threw his hands up in exasperation and came back down to the hay barn. “Guess who is bunking with you, tonight?”

The barn had more than enough room, and Jaskier’s travel gear was still with Geralt's own. The witcher assumed he would just unpack his bed roll and lay it out over some straw,but apparently Jaskier was too exhausted for even that. The bard just flopped down onto Geralt’s own bed and was asleep in mere seconds.

Geralt left him to it, sitting by the fire until dark. He planned on riding out with Roach to send for Marla’s sons, but he wasn’t comfortable leaving the bard alone just yet. The encounter with the roving alphas had been a strong reminder of what the Season brought. Human biology made people into animals. It took away reason. Those men may have been kind people outside of their rut, but inside of it they were potential rapists. Potential rapists who would have assaulted both Marla and Jaskier.

It was an ugly reality. No wonder his teachers had told him to stay clear of it all. 

It wasn’t even that a witcher needed to avoid large populations during the Season, it was that they should not interact with humans at all at that time. Geralt didn’t see the harm with Jaskier, and he hadn’t been near Marla until she was finished. Still, this was as close as he’d ever been to the process, and his prejudices were only reinforced. It was grave time.

Marla’s heat breaking was a good indicator that the Season was ending all over. Alphas would be coming down, and the risk was nearly gone for intruders. Still, Geralt walked the grounds again as night rolled in, enjoying the fresh spring air and the coming cool. They would be on their way tomorrow, and this strange job would be behind them. There was rumor of a large contract further south, and Jaskier was hoping to sing a few nights at a pub in the region.

The hay barn was dark and still when he got back. Jaskier slept like a dead man, lying spread across Geralt’s bed, his shirt askew. Geralt took Jaskier’s own bedroll and laid it out beside him. All the straw was piled in the one area, and there wasn’t a reason to be uncomfortable.

Jaskier snuffled in his sleep, turning towards Geralt by instinct. His cursory bath had helped with the lingering heat stink on the bard’s skin, and he smelled closer to himself. Geralt had always liked the bard’s smell. Not his cosmetic oils and perfumes exactly, but the smell of his skin and sweat. It was masculine and rich without being heavy. Calming and woody and dark, like a swig of expensive rye. 

They would travel tomorrow. Jaskier would be well-rested and their purses would be full. They would leave the madness behind them, together. 

It was easy to fall asleep.

* * *

If Geralt didn’t know what had happened to Marla, he would have assumed she had risen from a crypt. She didn’t come outside until mid-morning, and Geralt took pity on her and filled her tub in the house.

“You’re a godsend, Master Witcher,” she said, slowly trying to tidy the place. It looked exactly like one would expect after five days of relentless fucking. “This would have been hell alone. I’m sure I said before, but take another bottle from the cold storage for the road. You deserve it.”

Geralt wasn’t going to turn down free liquor. He chose a vintage stored in the dusty corner with the word ‘thistle’ scrawled on the label. The bottle was a dark, smoky glass. Geralt packed it safely in his saddlebag.

Jaskier finally emerged in the late morning, long after Geralt packed everything up. Roach was pawing the ground impatiently by the paddock. She and Marla’s grey gelding did not get along, and his chestnut was ready to leave the annoying steed in her dust.

“I’m up, what’s happening?” Jaskier asked, smoothing down his clothing. He was properly dressed for the first time that week. 

“Getting ready to go. Just need your bag from the house. Clean clothes are on the stump, there.” Geralt said, grabbing Roach’s tack and saddle. 

“Thank you, darling. You would be a wonderful housewife. Truly,” Jaskier said, gathering his things.

“If I shrunk your smallclothes in the wash, you deserve it.”

They were ready to go by noon, and the day was lovely and warm. It would rain later, Geralt could already sense the change in the air, but they could find shelter by then.

“Farewell lads,” Marla said, leaning heavily on the doorframe. She looked more dignified after her bath, her thick brown hair tied into a braid, no longer a tangle around her head. “I can’t thank you enough Jaskier, you saved me a lot of trouble.” Jaskier bowed and wagged his eyebrows at her and she scoffed. 

“And you, Master Witcher,” she paused, “Geralt. You were indispensable.”

Geralt doubted that, but nodded in thanks.

They moved on, Roach trotting a bit too enthusiastically, and made their way south. Jaskier stopped at a cottage a few miles down the road, and told the woman there to send Marla’s sons back home; their mother was well and waiting.

Geralt knew that Jaskier’s casual profession was a needed one, but he had been unaware of how needed. Before, it seemed like buying the love of a handsome songbird of a man was a bit of a hedonistic expense. Now it was obvious it was much more than that. Jaskier was needed. He was helping. He was getting his cock chaffed off and having more sex in a week than Geralt had in the last year, but he was helping.

They reached the town of Murivel by evening, and Jaskier was desperate for an audience, nearly buzzing with the need to perform. Geralt told him to go on ahead to the inn and get a room. 

He picked up the contract from the alderman just as the spring rains started. A wraith problem at a house to the west of the town, deep in the woods. The new owner finished renovating an old ruin there in time to have the ever-living shit scared out of him by a large wraith. He’d since moved to Treglodor, but wanted the property back come fall. It was an easy enough job, even though it was a little light for payment.

The inn was only half full, nearly all beta men and women, with a few recovering omegas and alphas slumped in their seats. Jaskier was already hard at work, prancing and crooning, sucking up the attention. 

Geralt bought a drink and hid himself away from the noise and bustle. He was amused at how easily Jaskier played the crowd. When he was younger and less honed in his craft, Jaskier had a lot of shows ending in a hail of food. Now, that was unheard of.

One woman seemed so charmed she grabbed at the bard as he passed, whistling after him. Jaskier winked and shimmied and shied away, finishing the set further from her table. By the time he collected his earnings and gained his escape, he had to nearly run from her.

Geralt raised a brow at Jaskier as he slid into the booth next to him, forgoing the chair across so he could use the big scary witcher as a shield. This was an old move of his. Geralt didn’t mind. 

“Aren’t you going to take her up on that offer?” He teased, tipping his cup towards the woman, who seemed to be evaluating what her chances of success were against Geralt.

Jaskier snatched the mug out of his hands and glared over the rim as he drank. “Geralt,” he said as he came up for air, “ are you serious? My stones are the size of pebbles right now.”

Geralt couldn’t hold the laugh, and it only came out harder as Jaskier slapped his shoulder. “Alright then, bard. I’ll be your bodyguard as well.”

Jaskier raised the stolen mug to the innkeeper, indicating he wanted another. “You take your payment in drink, dear witcher?”

* * *

Geralt meant to investigate the wraith problem the next day, but word that a witcher was in town had someone banging on the door to their room early in the morning. There was an aghoul lurking on the edge of a man’s farm, feasting on some dead thing just off his property. Jaskier waved him away, still in bed.

“I’m not getting out of bed for an aghoul. Have at it the wretch and I’ll do some supply shopping,” he said, muffled into his pillow. 

An aghoul was nothing special. Geralt couldn’t blame Jaskier for choosing sleep. 

“Don’t forget to buy more of your cock oil,” Geralt teased, voice quiet. Jaskier snorted a laugh and snuggled in further.

* * *

The aghoul took more time to find than usual. The weather was dreary and wet, colder than before. It shouldn’t have been enough for Geralt to even feel it, but the chilled air made his skin prickle. The necrophage was hiding in a swampy, wooded area, and Geralt tracked it to a small ravine. He slid down the muddy decline to follow, and Geralt was damp and dirty by the time he found it. 

The aghoul was getting fat off of a dead cow that had most likely broken its leg falling down the ravine. Its full belly made its reflexes poor, and Geralt liberated its head from its neck easily. Unfortunately, the sound of the rain in the forest made a fog of ambient noise, and the second aghoul had the advantage of being on the high ground. 

He dodged the bite, but a claw caught the gap between chest plate and pauldron, cutting through the jerkin and slicing into flesh. Geralt hissed and twisted, knocking the aghoul to the side. He needed to change his sword to his left to kill it, his right arm burning and losing some mobility. 

Geralt trudged out of the woods a half an hour later, ladened with aghoul organs and two severed heads, and bleeding freely. The farmer pulled a face at the sight of him, but paid what was due. 

By the time he got back to the inn Geralt could feel the edges of the wound closing, but the continuing burn and sluggish bleeding indicated it would need stitches. Jaskier was playing again for a small audience eating their lunch, but stopped immediately at the sight of blood.

“Duty calls, fair folk. I’ve a witcher to attend,” he said, quick on Geralt’s heels and asking the housekeeper to ready a bath.

It was a dance they were both good at, this decompression. Jaskier used to fumble with his armor and second guess his every move, afraid Geralt wouldn’t allow it. Geralt had long learned to accept what was offered; it made both their lives easier. He healed faster with assistance, and Jaskier was less likely to panic at his injuries when he had a hand in fixing them.

“An aghoul, then? Not a bite, I hope?” Jaskier’s fingers were already red with blood as he helped release the clasps of the chest plate. 

“Two aghouls. One got lucky with a claw.”

Jaskier nodded and helped peel the cut jerkin away, tacky now with thickened blood. He frowned at the wound. “Not long, but deep. I’ll get the sewing kit. Want to flush it beforehand?”

Their movements were practiced and easy after a decade and a half. Jaskier’s stitches were so clean and well-aligned he could have apprenticed as a surgeon, and Geralt’s scars from when they traveled together healed thinner and faster. 

The wound was swollen and burned as Jaskier closed it. His fingertips were cold against the injured skin as he tied off the last stitch.

“The bites cause the problems, not claws, correct?” Jaskier asked.

He grunted in confirmation, and Jaskier’s hand came up slowly to wipe at Geralt’s brow. 

“It’s just that you’re sweating an awful lot, like you do when you’ve had a brush with venom.” 

“Well it’s raining out,” Geralt supplied unhelpfully. 

Jaskier followed him to the bath, which was unnecessary; the wound wasn’t anything that would impede movement and make him need assistance. Geralt didn’t complain; Jaskier had his bag with him, and most likely had replenished his soaps. He could steal one. 

The bath room was small and humid, with a large tub filled and waiting. Geralt stripped and settled in it and Jaskier leaned against the wall, watching him through the steam.

“Are you alright, my friend?” He asked. “No other injuries.”

They had gotten past the point of Geralt hiding wounds from Jaskier. “Did you follow me in here to see for yourself?” Geralt leaned back in the tub, stretching. His muscles were uncomfortably tight, but the pain of the slash was already fading. 

Jaskier was strangely quiet, but then moved to his bag, pulling out a new bar of soap and handing it over. “Clean up, my dear,” he said, tone failing to reach the lilting, singing note he usually carried. “Then do me a favor, and get some rest. I’ll bring up some supper later.”

Geralt was up and dry a half an hour later, dressed in the newly washed shirt and a loose pair of pants. As he rolled into bed he caught a whiff of the shirt, noticing with some alarm that it smelled a bit like sex. Geralt was puzzled, then remembered he had washed the shirt last, soaking it in all smells of the laundry that was washed before it. It should have been off-putting, but the ghost of a smell was not exactly unpleasant.

Geralt settled under the bedding, feeling heavy and tired. It wasn’t quite night yet, but sleep was an alluring prospect. He wasn’t aware he had drifted off until he stirred again, this time to Jaskier delivering a plate of bread and dried fruit before he bowed out to go sing for the patrons. Geralt didn’t even feel motivated to get up to eat, and simply turned over. 

The next time he woke, it was morning. Geralt sat up, confused, and felt a tight stab of pain in his back as his muscles complained. Jaskier was sitting at the small table, fully dressed. He looked rested, so he had slept as well. Geralt didn’t recall hearing him come in.

It wasn’t so unusual: he was used to Jaskier. It made sense his sleeping mind didn’t alert him of danger. 

The bard was picking at the food he’d left on the table, and looked up as Geralt shifted to the edge of the bed.

“Good morning my dear witcher,” he said. “Want any breakfast? The bread may have gone a bit stale from being out all night, but you’ve had worse.”

Geralt grumbled and shook his head. He wasn’t hungry. He checked his wound and saw that it was closed. He carefully pulled the stitches, then cleaned up the small trickle of blood from the punctures as he dressed. 

His armor was clean from the mud of the day before, and the jerkin, although still stained with blood, was mended. Geralt hadn’t tended to it before bed.

He glanced at Jaskier from the corner of his eye. The bard was chewing a crust of bread, looking out the window and ignoring Geralt’s attention. The witcher left the situation alone, and worked on putting on his armor. After he was dressed and ready, Jaskier stood.

“Wraith hunting in a haunted house, today? How absolutely storybook. I wonder if there’s an old lover beneath the floorboards, or some rival tossed into the well. Perhaps a cursed comb left on a nightstand, those are always ludacris and entertaining.”

Geralt hummed and opened the door. Jaskier shouldered his bag and trailed after himo. He must have packed it the night before. “Well, lets go hunt a ghost.”

The witcher blinked at him. He was certain that they would stay here another night and move on in the morning.

“You’re coming with to hunt a wraith?” Jaskier had seen hundreds of wraiths of various types. A haunted cabin was not exactly epic material, with or without a ridiculous cursed household object to blame.

The bard flapped his hand at their general surroundings. “ Why not? I’m all played out at this inn, and I want to go.” Jaskier had been desperate for performance opportunities, and the town was not small. There were other venues he could have played at if he merely asked. Still, it wasn’t a particularly dangerous hunt, and the walk to the cabin took a few hours judging by the directions. Geralt had plenty of quiet from the week before. Jaskier’s constant prattling was more like ambient birdsong to him now: settling and expected.

The trail to the house was narrow and twisting off the main roadway, and the woods it was settled in hadn’t seen an axe in nearly a century. Jaskier commented that the large, untouched trees were quite beautiful. The forest was dark even with fresh leaves coming out in the canopy, and the whole of the woods was tinted in cool green light. The alderman claimed the land was haunted, so it's no wonder the cabin built upon old ruins inside of it would be as well. 

They reached the house by the afternoon. It was bigger than Geralt was led to believe, with added stables, a newly dug well, and two smaller outbuildings, it was a decent homestead. The grasses had already overgrown the yard and some small saplings were sprouting in the walkways. 

“Want to investigate the stable first so we can put dear Roach in them?” Jaskier asked, eyeballing the building. It made sense. They would have a base of operations to store their things until the wraith was sorted out.

The stables were normal. The foundation was newly laid and the building was entirely harmless. Jaskier ripped up several handfuls of fresh grasses for Roach while Geralt readied his kit.

Normally the witcher wouldn’t even allow Jaskier to follow him when he was investigating, but the bard was behaving; staying quiet as he tailed behind, only asking questions when Geralt forgot to comment on something aloud. 

The well was unremarkable; the water untainted and rain-clear. They moved on to the house next, and Geralt was relieved for once that he did not need to kick the door in: the alderman had given him a key. 

The house was nicely furnished, and had been properly closed up before being abandoned. Geralt left Jaskier in the doorway until he did a quick sweep, then demanded the bard stick to his back and not touch a thing as they looked around. There was a minor amount of trinkets and decoration, and quite a few crates sitting unpacked in the corner. The owner really hadn’t moved completely in when the haunting started. 

After a more thorough sweep didn’t unearth anything, Jaskier got a little more daring, and began to go about the house, opening the shutters and letting fresh air in. 

“Found anything yet?” He asked, catching up to Geralt as he rooted around in the kitchen. Nothing was alerting him to magic or curses. So far, the wraith was just hearsay. 

Geralt hummed and opened a large clay pot to see unremarkable flour inside. Jaskier shuffled beside him.

“They have to have a cellar here. It’s a big house and far away from market. They need cold storage.”

He wasn’t wrong. The hatch to the cellar was in the far corner of the kitchen, and opened to a set of stone stairs leading down into the dark. Jaskier grabbed a candle and followed him. There weren’t many provisions in the cellar, but it was large and chambered, most likely build off the old ruins that came before. 

“Now this is properly creepy,” Jaskier whispered, a note of approval in his tone. “A wraith in the old cellars, getting drunk on wine and spoiling cheeses, pestering its new neighbors who built a house on their head.” Geralt highly doubted that a wraith could spoil cheeses.

As they rounded the corner in the next room, Jaskier’s arm brushed a broom handle and sent it clattering to the floor. He grabbed Geralt by the elbow as he jumped. Normally the bard would scoff at himself and make a joke, but he instead looked at Geralt, brow pinched.

“What?” The witcher asked, annoyed. 

Jaskier thinned his eyes at him, and ignored the question. “Anything down here setting off your senses?”

Geralt gave the cellar a broad look. “Nothing.”

They went back upstairs, Jaskier nicking a bottle of wine on the way up from an open box. Geralt grumbled to himself, trying to run through other possibilities. There were no marks in the cellar that indicated old rituals, no signs of any graves on the ground. There were no floorboards to hide a dead lover under, as Jaskier had jokingly suggested, and no signs of foul play.

Back in the main room, Jaskier inspected a comfortable looking chair by the hearth, commenting on how the house’s owner must have a decent amount of money to afford luxury items and then cart them out to the woods. Geralt only half-listened. His skin felt tight and prickly, and he was out of ideas. Perhaps the other outbuilding would have something of interest.

“You think they’ll mind if we stay in here for the night?” The bard said, hands petting over an old fur that had been thrown across a rocking chair as he looked about. “That bedroom had a decent looking mattress, and I don’t think they’ll noticed some rumpled sheets- oh sweet fuck what is- !”Jaskier shrieked, clamoring across the room. Geralt turned just as his medallion vibrated, and in the corner was a swirling blackness, its tendrils beginning to form into something not quite human.

“Jaskier, move,” Geralt growled, pulling his sword and readying a sign at his fingertips. 

“Yes, yes moving!” Jaskier babbled, scrambling behind the witcher with wide eyes. He pulled his small silver dagger out, just in case.

The wraith was a spindly and a bit grotesque, with faintly luminous eyes in a slack-jawed face. It swung its head from side to side and gave an airy groan. Geralt threw a Yrden at the floor in front of it as it lurched towards them, and the groan turned into an angry scream.

It was an easy thing to dispatch when trapped, and only managed to make Geralt wince at the horrific noise it made as he slashed through it. The wraith faded, and Jaskier let out a whoop of joy. Geralt looked around to see if it had left any residue behind, but it had not. 

“It’s attached to an object,” Geralt said, trying to figure out where it had originated. The corner it crept from was filled with packed crates. “I only banished it to its origin. It will come back soon. Come on.”

“So, it’s in the crates!” Jaskier was at his side quickly, using his silver dagger to pry open a box. “You’re telling me the idiot owner brought the haunting with him?”

Geralt nodded and pulled things from their straw packing. Dishes, a tea kettle, a few clay bowls. Nothing humming with supernatural energy. Jaskier was tossing through a crate of clothing, pulling out tunics and leathers, making snide commentary about their style. The medallion lay still on Geralt’s chest until Jaskier lifted a particular piece of clothing.

“That’s it,” Geralt said, catching the cloth as Jaskier threw it as if it would bite. He held it up and inspected it.

“Are you kidding me?” Jaskier exclaimed. “That’s it? A nightshirt?” It was, indeed, a nightshirt. A bit worn and unremarkable, but Geralt’s medallion buzzed like a trapped bee as he held it. 

“That’s the strangest…” Jaskier continued, sounding incredulous, “how does one make a nightshirt haunted? What could possibly be the process?”

Geralt grabbed a spot of cloth near the sleeve and held it up. There, faded and stained onto the fabric, were several small flecks of brown.

“Blood,” Geralt explained, moving towards the door. “Just enough to cause an attachment.”

Jaskier followed as Geralt moved across the yard, looking for a place to burn and bury the garment. He grabbed a shovel leaning against the side of the stables and moved away from the house. Destroying a piece of cloth would be rather easy.

“Oh, it was probably a murder!” Jaskier said. “The owner killed someone in the night, some scorned lover, and destroyed all traces of them, except the blood on the shirt.” He began to ramble, cooking up a fantastical story to go along with it. “And he tried again and again to wash the stain out, but it remained! He moved to a new house to escape the past and the phantom came with, terrorizing him! Oh, this has some potential for drama and some comedy- imagine: haunted smallclothes.”

“It’s a shirt,” Geralt sighed, finding a patch of dirt. 

Jaskier continued his fabrication as Geralt did all the work digging a shallow hole and tossing the nightshirt in. He lit it with an Igni and stood back a step, waiting to see if the wraith made one final attempt at manifesting. In the end, only a small sliver of sickly green smoke curled up from the ashes and disappeared. The witcher threw salt in with the ashes and buried them.

“Done. We can stay here for tonight,” Geralt said. The pay was dismally low and they could at least get free lodging out of the deal. 

Jaskier brought their bags inside as Geralt removed Roach’s gear. The bard came out as Geralt hoisted the saddle over a stand, grunting as his back twinged with the motion. 

“The wraith didn’t harm you at all, did it?” Jaskier asked, hands on his hips in the doorway.

“No.” Geralt hung Roach’s bridle on another hook, and wiped a hand across his forehead.

“It's just, well, you don't look well.”

Geralt ignored him, tying a loose lead to Roach so she would be able to walk outside the stable and eat all the overgrown grass, then come in when she was finished. 

Jaskier’s voice came again softer, more insistent. “Geralt, please… something is wrong.”

“I’m fine.”

“No,” the bard said, holding out a hand and counting a list on his fingers, “you’ve not been eating, you’re sweating like mad, you just winced when picking up a saddle, and you gasped when I touched your arm in the cellar.” He had? Geralt didn’t notice, he only remembered how Jaskier had given him a look, afterward. “What is going on?”

It was nothing. He just needed some meditation. Geralt moved off towards the house. “I told you…”

“You’re not well, Geralt!” Jaskier said, reaching out to touch him. The grip on his shoulder wasn’t hard, but it made him jump, nonetheless. Geralt didn’t startle. Witchers didn’t flinch, and anger quickly chased his alarm.

“Fuck off!” He snapped, rounding on his friend, teeth bared. As soon as it was barked out he regretted it, felt the hot flush of anger grow instantly cold with worry. Jaskier didn’t deserve his ire. Jaskier hadn’t done anything wrong.

Geralt expected the man to bluster and yell back, but his friend’s face settled on stony determination instead of outrage. When he responded, it was Geralt who was the one baulking at his tone.

“Get inside the house,” Jaskier said, voice level and firm. He stepped into Geralt’s space, chin up.

The witcher nearly stepped back. “Jaskier, it's not…”

“Geralt of Rivia, turn around and get into the house.” And there was nothing left to do but listen, so he did. Geralt was herded into the main room. Jaskier pointed at the chair he had been admiring by the fire. “Sit.”

He did. Jaskier went to their packs and drew out a water skin, then handed it over. 

“Drink.” 

Geralt took several gulps of water as Jaskier sat on a stool across from him, elbows on his knees, and glared. He was angry, and Geralt realized, concerned.

The witcher sighed. “I’m sorry I yelled.”

“I’m sorry you’re lying,” Jaskier said in return. 

“What?” He wasn’t lying; he really was sorry that he had yelled. It wasn’t justified.

The bard squinted at him, gaze traveling from Geralt's boots to his brow. He leaned back on the stool and crossed his arms. “Something is wrong with you, Geralt, and you‘re doing your damnedest not to acknowledge it,” Jaskier said. His voice held no room for bargaining. “But something is wrong, and you are going to tell me what it is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geralt you sweaty, sore, moody mess... don’t worry, there’s filth on the horizon.


	3. Groundwork

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt gets a diagnosis and a treatment plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let’s talk about sex, baby. Let’s talk about you and me.

There was an unusually long length of quiet between them with only the sound of songbirds drifting in from the opened windows. Geralt knew that it was his move to make, and that until he did, Jaskier’s harrying would not relent.

“I don’t…” he said, fishing for the right words, “feel well.”

“Illuminating,” Jaskier quipped, his brows drawn in frustration. Geralt huffed and tried to think on it further. There were small things he had noticed, just had not seen a problem with.

“My back hurts?” He tried again.

Jaskier nodded and tipped his head, accepting that bit of information. “I’ll give you a massage later. What else?”

Geralt sighed. “I’m tired.”

“Okay,” Jaskier stood, clapping his hands to his thighs, “we can stay here a few nights and you can get all the down time you need.” It wasn’t that Geralt disagreed, but they were just commandeering his client’s house. Planning several days there was a bit more than one night. 

Jaskier moved in closer, not touching, but near enough to reach out. “Are you warm? Cold?” He asked. “Why are you sweating so much?”

Geralt assumed it was the humidity the day before, but he had no idea why it was even worse, now. The weather was dry and cool. There wasn’t a reason for it. “I don’t know.”

“You’re jumpy, too,” Jaskier noted, referring to the incident in the cellar. Geralt didn’t notice he had jumped at all. “I thought that was literally impossible. I thought you’re more likely to stab me then jump.”

Geralt frowned. “I wouldn’t stab you.”

Jaskier cast a quick, fond look in his direction. “Let’s start small,” he said. “Let’s take off your armor at least and have a lie down.” He wasn’t asking, and Geralt wasn’t going to argue, either. There was no reason not to. 

They moved into the main bedroom. There was a sizable empty wardrobe, a rustic desk and chair and a decently sized bed. There were even linens on it, albeit musty and in need of changing. Jaskier pulled off the top quilt, taking most of the offensive dust with it, and tossed it in the corner. Geralt pulled off his armor and boots, then sat on the bed. He felt strangely heavy, even out of armor. His skin prickled, and he took his shirt off as well.

Jaskier turned back to him, eyebrows raised. “Are you hot?”

Geralt laid back on the bed, his head hitting a stale smelling pillow. He could feel how damp his skin was now that it was exposed to the air, but he didn’t feel like he was too warm. “No.”

“You don’t run a sweat like this unless you’re toxic and dying,” Jaskier said, leaning over him. Geralt fought back the strange feeling that the sight of his friend above him, concern on his face. 

Jaskier lifted a hand slowly, projecting that he meant to touch. Geralt didn’t protest, and cool fingers pressed against his chest, over his heart. The touch nearly caused the witcher to jerk in place. He breathed deep, forced himself to stay still.

“You always feel warm to me, so I can’t tell.” Jaskier pressed harder then, flattening his palm against Geralt’s skin. “Your heart is fast. It's nearly half the tempo of mine.”

That was fast. Geralt took a deep breath and tried to slow it, but it kept its quickened pace. “I can slow it when I meditate.” At least he hoped he could. 

Jaskier seemed pleased enough at that answer, and drew his hand back. “Do that in a bit,” he said. “What about your back?” Jaskier twirled a finger in the air. “Turn over for me please.”

Geralt moved stiffly, flopping back down on the musty pillow with a grunt. Jaskier hovered over him again, as if he physically expected to see the problem. 

“Where is it? Your spine, your kidney?” Geralt could feel Jaskier fluttering his hands over him, indecisive about where to touch.

“Lower back,” he grunted. “Muscle pain.” At least it was just that. Pain in his kidneys would be another sign of venom and toxicity, and bone would be an even greater concern. A tight back was just a sign of stress and moving the wrong way.

“That I can help with,” Jaskier said, relieved. “Do you want me to see if I can work it out?” Geralt hummed his consent, and Jaskier hurried to his bag, digging around inside. Several glass jars and pots clicked together as he rustled through it. Correct oil found, he returned, uncorking the vial and rubbing some on his palms.

He was exceedingly good at this, always had been. Geralt was privy to many massages over the years. Jaskier’s fingers were long and graceful, but his grip was strong and sure. Any tight muscle would be easily forced into submission by his attention, and if they fought back, Jaskier was not one to shy away from throwing all of his weight on an elbow.

The tension banded across his lower back was considerable, and it felt painful and amazing to have it kneaded. Little shocks sparked from the nerves in his back as the bard worked, digging into the knots and convincing them loose. Geralt was so relaxed by the rhythmic strokes that he failed to fight a shiver that traveled up his spine at the attention. 

Normally, a reaction like that would have the bard teasing him about being ticklish, and perhaps trying again to get the same reaction. He didn’t. Instead, Jaskier drew his hand away.

“Geralt,” he said, voice soft and low and strangely cautious, “I want to try something. It’s not going to hurt you.” Before Geralt could even ask what it was, Jaskier reached up to the thick muscle of his trapezius, near his neck, and gripped him firmly.

The noise that came out of Geralt was not expected by either of them. The grip on the shoulder, the small points of sharp pressure digging into his muscle should have barely issued a grunt of surprise, but the touch caused a bolt of sensation, not unlike a lover dragging their nails down his back, or sucking a painful mark into his skin. Geralt gasped and twitched against the bed, alarmed at the change from relaxation to surprise. It wasn’t quite arousal, but certainly a thrill.

The touch retreated as Jaskier leaned back, eerily silent. Geralt turned to look at him, feeling dread at the worry on his companion’s face. Jaskier had a hand held over his mouth, and his eyes were wide in alarm. The bard didn’t go silent in worry unless he was quite literally at knifepoint, and sometimes not even then.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, pushing himself up onto his hip. His head felt fuzzy and even the shock of worry wasn’t enough to clear it. “What is it?”

Jaskier shook his head and moved away from him, going clear over to the desk and chair. Alarm bells were going off in Geralt’s head. Jaskier nearly ignored personal space; this was intentional distancing.

Was he sick? How was that possible? If Geralt managed to get some sort of plague, then Jaskier would certainly be dead already. Geralt didn’t get illnesses. The only thing that could cause symptoms like this was a poison or potion, and he hadn’t taken a thing. 

Geralt heaved himself up to sitting, leaning heavily against the headboard. He took a deep breath, and steadied his gaze on his friend. “What is it?”

Jaskier was pale, and he moved to unbutton the neck of his doublet, as if he was being choked. “Oh Geralt,” he shook his head, “and you haven’t had an appetite?”

He already knew he didn’t. The witcher hadn’t touched the food Jaskier had brought up for him the day before, and he hadn’t eaten that morning either. It was unusual, but Geralt was able to go longer than the average human without eating, and his stomach hadn’t hurt in the slightest. How did that matter? “And?”

Jaskier frowned. “This is a bit rude, but would you mind me asking when is the last time you’ve had a squat in the woods?”

“What the fuck?” What did having to take a shit have to do with fatigue and a sore back? His digestion was fine. Except, well, it had been eerily silent for a while. His stomach hadn’t even rumbled once in hunger. Perhaps it was a bit relevant? Jaskier seemed to be on to something Geralt was missing. “Two days?” He said, trying not to be disturbed about it. “What does that have to do with anything?”

Jaskier closed his eyes and leaned back in the chair. Apparently that was not a good answer, and the bard dragged his hand over his face. “Geralt,” he muttered under his palm, then held his hand out as if pleading. “ You have temperature problems, a faster heart rate, body aches, a painful lower back and your digestive tract stops?” He gestured vaguely. “That’s preheat.”

Geralt was nearly startled into laughter, but the severity on his friend’s face kept it at bay. “Jaskier, I’m a witcher.”

The bard nodded, leaning back in the chair again. “I know. I’m just telling you what it looks like.”

Frustration welled in Geralt’s chest. Frustration, and confusion. “Impossible,” he snapped. 

Jaskier scowled at his tone, irritation overcoming his worry. “Not like I know anything about it, right?” He threw his hands up. “Not like I, quite literally, have been escorting people through their ruts and heats for over a decade!” His bluster was short-lived, and Jaskier crossed his arms and inhaled deeply. The corner of his mouth twitched in its frown. 

When he started in again, Jaskier’s voice was softer. “It’s just that, Geralt you smell like it.” Geralt blinked at him, incredulous. “It’s hard for a beta to pick up,” Jaskier explained, “but it’s a unique smell.”

What the fuck did that mean? Geralt lifted the shirt he had discarded to his nose and sniffed. He ignored his scent for the most part: it had sour notes of death he hated, and it distracted from the smells around him. The shirt smelled like sweat and forest, a bit of horse. Jaskier must have been imagining it.

Jaskier brought his own hands to his face, smelling deeply. He must have it lingering on them from rubbing Geralt’s back. The sight shouldn’t have made Geralt feel as warm as it did. 

“It’s almost like the smell of cedar? Not quite.” The bard huffed and shook his head. Geralt noticed the way his friend’s pupils had dilated. “It’s not rut, which was honestly my first suspicion.”

“It shouldn’t be either,” the witcher growled, knowing he sounded sullen. This was impossible: Geralt had never gone through his subsex puberty. He hadn’t had the extra hormone fluctuations, the strong urges, or even the aggression. Witcher mutations destroyed that part of the human body, or at least he thought. Apparently it was still there, just extremely dormant. Geralt was nearing a century in age, and now his body decided to stir up its mutated subsex?

“Why now?”

Jaskier shrugged. “I don’t know that, my friend. You’ll need to talk to your fellow witchers and see what they think.” Oh that would be a horrible conversation. Vesimir would want to interview him and know exactly what happened, Eskel would worry and try to figure out a way to fix it, and Lambert would piss himself laughing. 

“You said you avoided people during the Season,” Jaskier said, tapping his chin, “but this time you were in pretty close contact. Maybe that did it?”

Geralt huffed. That made little sense. Yes, he was closer to humans than he ever had been during the season, but he kept a distance. “I wasn’t interacting with Marla.” He hadn’t even been within arm’s reach of her until she was finished with her heat.

“But you were close enough to smell her,” Jaskier said, “and that’s how the season starts. One omega triggers another. They can sense each other’s changes, and it's like an avalanche.”

“That shouldn’t work,” Geralt growled. Yes, he had been close enough to smell her and the sex she was having, but he was more honed into Jaskier’s familiar scent rather than Marla’s.

“I don’t know what to tell you.” Jaskier looked like he desperately wanted a pull off of the wine bottle he had left in the kitchen. “That’s what I think is wrong. We won’t know for sure until it happens.”

That was the grave truth of it: until it crested, his ailment was a mystery. Geralt didn’t have any better answers for what was happening than Jaskier did. If Marla’s heat smell triggered a heat in himself, they were looking at a rather daunting, but not life threatening problem. Although something like an injury would be more straightforward to fix, it was much more dangerous. 

Geralt closed his eyes for a moment and focused on his body. A thin sheen of sweat was still settled on his skin, and he didn’t feel hot, only uncomfortable. His back had a dull ache, and he was tired, yet filled with a strange tension. It was aggravating, but not paralyzing. 

“How does it…” he struggled for a moment, grumbling as he thought of the right way to phrase it, “how am I supposed to feel?” 

Jaskier, who was in the process of getting up off of his chair, scoffed in amusement. “Well, are you horny?”

That was hardly a fair question. Geralt always nearly felt like he could have sex. It took extreme injury or revulsion to make that constant need go away. He took stock of what he felt at that moment. The thought of being in heat was horrible, but idea of having sex made a surge of warmth tingle low in his belly. It was hardly different from the days before. One could only listen to people having enthusiastic sex for so long and remain unaffected.

Geralt sighed and rolled his eyes, trying not to look at Jaskier directly. “Yes.”

Jaskier laughed, ignoring the obvious irritation. “I’m going to assume that feeling physically awful and quarreling doesn’t normally make you horny.”

That was true. Perhaps he was a bit more riled up than usual. “No.”

Jaskier clapped. “Preheat it is then, my poor friend!” 

Geralt tried not to wince at him.

“You can handle this,” Jaskier said, dismissively. “It’s not fun, but who knows; maybe yours will be mild, what with your ability to heal.” That might be true. Witchers’ bodies tried to maintain a constant state and resisted changes. Aging was part of that. Perhaps a heat season would be fast and light?

“Do you feel comfortable here?”

Geralt frowned. What did that matter? “In bed?”

Jaskier gave him an unamused look. “In the house, Geralt. It’s important you feel comfortable and safe.”

That was a reasonable question. If he was to be in less than fighting shape, they needed a safe space. Now that the house was purged of its haunting, it was just a slightly musty, vacant house. 

“It’s safe here.”

“Good!” Jaskier picked his bag off of the floor and shouldered it. “The well is in good condition, so you’ll have plenty of water, and you won’t need food.” Geralt didn’t like how that was phrased, and tensed as Jaskier moved to the doorway. “I can take Roach and be back in a few days to come check on you, since you won’t be in any mind to take care of her.”

Geralt was out of bed before the sentence was finished, and Jaskier nearly jumped in surprise as the witcher took a step towards him. “Where the fuck are you going?” He snarled.

Jaskier stared at him, wide eyed. “I’ll go back to Murivel,” he squeaked, clutching his bag to his chest, “that’s the closest.”

“You’re not leaving.”

The distance between them had somehow gotten smaller, and Jaskier was now standing out in the main hall, bag before him as a shield. Geralt forced himself to stop just outside the doorway.

Jaskier winced, looking nervous. “Geralt, I know you don’t know what’s going on with you, but you should know well enough that you’re going to be, very strongly, demanding a warm body to ease your… needs. If I stay here, I’m a warm body.”

So, Jaskier was leaving him to deal with it alone. He’d give Geralt a few days to sweat and writhe and jerk himself raw, all by himself. The thought brought up a cold anger, made his teeth grind and his nostrils flare.

“What,” he growled, leaning forward, looming, “do I have to hire you?”

Jaskier stared at him, expression moving from worried to confused. “What?” he said, only slightly shrill. “Geralt, are you saying you  _ want _ me to stay?”

The witcher battled the flare of anger back, trying to keep calm. Aggression was part of a heat, and a lonely omega was desperate. The realization flooded him with guilt. He nearly charged Jaskier, was maybe a moment away from grabbing him- all because the man said he was going to leave him. 

Gerat took a deep breath, swallowed the apology. “I’m… out of my element on this,” he admitted. “You know about it.”

Jaskier pursed his lips. “Wow, did that hurt to say?”

Geralt didn’t have any response for him other than a flat glare. 

The bard sighed and dropped his bag against the doorframe, then squinted at the witcher. “Geralt, are you saying you would like me to be your heat companion.”

That was what he was demanding, not asking. Jaskier was acting like Geralt hadn’t just chased him into the next room. Having the bard help him through a heat was, well, not a horrible idea. He was a professional, Geralt’s friend, and not at all bad looking.

Geralt shrugged.

Jaskier tutted at him and shook his head. “No, no no. Being silent isn’t going to work for you this time.” He posted his hands on his hips and jutted his chin out, demanding. “I have rules for this sort of thing. Yes or no, Geralt. Would you be okay with that?”

“Would you?” He countered. Geralt had just dropped the fact that he wanted Jaskier to fuck him onto the man, and he didn’t seem to have a problem with it at all. 

“Of course I would,” Jaskier assured. He glanced somewhere over Geralt’s shoulder. His face was bright red, but he was doing his damndest to ignore it. “We take care of each other.” Jaskier’s gaze came back to Geralt’s, and the delicate crow’s feet in the corner of his eyes crinkled in a smile. “If you want me to stay, I’ll stay.”

That’s what this was; Jaskier was helping, he was stitching a wound. It wasn’t any more than that, just trust between companions, and a professional escort at work. The thought pulled uncomfortably at Geralt, but he forced it out. Sometimes he fixated on a problem that didn’t exist, read things incorrectly. This could stay simple.

“Then stay,” he said.

“Okay!” And Jaskier was moving away, heading towards the kitchen. “Then this requires a long awkward talk, and I want wine. Thirsty?” Geralt grunted and collapsed in the main room’s comfortable chair. Jaskier would have to drag one from elsewhere. Geralt didn’t feel like getting up.

The witcher was trying to grasp everything that was happening. Bad luck and strange happenings made up the last few decades of his life, so it really wasn’t that shocking to add another. Staring down the fact that he was undergoing a strange hormonal fluctuation that would make him into an animalistic wreck, Geralt could say he honestly had worse fates on the horizon. He wasn’t about to be burned at the stake, or eaten by a selkiemore. He was just going to have lots of intense, awkward and frantic sex with his friend. This would just be embarrassing, not life threatening.

Jaskier came back into the room with an open bottle and two cups, muttering about how the proper glasses weren’t even unpacked yet. He set things down on the stool and fetched the chair from the bedroom. The bard didn’t bitch at Geralt for making him do it himself, so Jaskier was obviously in a more serious mood.

Geralt poured the wine for him, at least. 

Settled down with a good bit of distance between them, Jaskier gulped deeply from his cup, and spoke. “Alright then, if I’m to help you, we need to talk about what is going to happen between us.”

“Why?” Geralt grunted. “We fuck. Simple.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes. “There’s a lot more to it then that. I need to know if you trust me to-“

“Yes.”

Jaskier scowled. “I didn’t finish.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Geralt said. “I trust you.”

Jaskier smiled at that, then hid it in his wine as he took a drink. Geralt didn’t see why that was a big deal; it was obvious he trusted theman. Why would he sleep in the same bunk or share meals if he didn’t trust him?

“Okay,” the bard said, sitting back in the chair and swirling the cup like he was at a tasting, “then I’ll trust you with the one thing I need you to do.”

Geralt grunted for him to continue.

“This is going to be difficult for you,” Jaskier teased, “but I’m trusting you to do it: for this to work, you need to be honest about what you want. Can you do that?”

That seemed simple enough. “Yes.”

“Heats get intense sometimes,” Jaskier explained. “I don’t know what yours is going to look like. You’re going to want a lot, but I’m only going to give you what you agree to right now. I’m not going to risk doing anything to you you wouldn’t want otherwise from a partner.”

That… actually made a lot of sense. If heat was as bad as Geralt was led to believe, he wasn’t going to be great at making decisions. That thought had always been unsettling, and knowing it was an incoming threat was not pleasant. 

Geralt liked planning. Fights ended poorly without planning, and contingencies were essential. He understood, logically, that this was a good idea. That didn’t make him any less tense. The knowledge that he and Jaskier were going to be having eminent sex was already causing a frisson of excitement to build in his gut. Talking about it was going to make the amorphous idea much more concrete.

“We have to talk about it right now?”

Jaskier pursed his lips and nodded. “I don’t know how long you have left until you’re in the thick of it. Maybe a day, but you’re a witcher, and I don’t know if it will affect you more or less.”

He tried not to sound petulant. “It shouldn’t be at all.” 

“I know, my friend. I’m sorry.”

Geralt took a large swill of wine and topped off his cup. “Talk.”

“Alright.” Jaskier took the bottle from Geralt, filling his own drink. “I’m going to list things we can do and I want a yes or no if you would be okay with them. Please specify if needed.” He drank, cleared his throat, and began. “Would you like to be kissed?”

That was an unexpected first question, but not exactly unwelcome. He’d just assumed that they would. Did some clients not like to be kissed? Geralt held back the frown that threatened to show; the idea that someone would be this intimate without kissing him was unappealing.“Yes.”

“Would you like me to suck your cock?”

A part of him perked up in interest. “Yes.”

Jaskier continued, seemingly unaffected. “Would you like me to eat you out?”

“Uh,” Geralt muttered, distracted by the thought of it. Thinking of Jaskier’s mouth licking and sucking at him down there was enough to make him clench up. Across from him, Jaskier waited for a real response. “Yes?”

The bard nodded. He wasn’t even blushing. “Would you like me to fuck you with my cock?”

Geralt’s body jerked at that, his own cock thickening. Gods, this wasn’t going to be as easy as he thought it would be. His normal control was already too thin for him not to get aroused listening to this. “Fuck, Jaskier. Do we really need to do this?”

“Yes.” Jaskier smiled gently. “Would you like me to fuck you with my cock?”

“Yes!” Geralt snarled, annoyed and hot.

“I’m sorry.” Jaskier didn’t look sorry at all; he looked calm and cool, with his legs crossed and pinky finger out. “These are my rules. Unfortunately, estrus makes omegas a bit mindless at times, so consent needs to be established clearly beforehand,” he explained, voice musical and light. “Would you like me to place my fingers inside your body?”

He could do this. “I assume you’ll need to. Yes.”

“Would you like to have my hand inside your body?”

He could not do this.

Geralt opened and closed his mouth several times, trying his best to not picture the slender musician’s hand and how easy it would be to just relax and… fuck. “Do you do that?”

“Oh yes,” Jaskier said. “Betas can only knot under very specific circumstances. I have yet to do it, myself. There are alternatives to a knot that are quite satisfactory.” He grinned lasciviously and wiggled his fingers, as if Geralt needed more fuel for the fire.

“Fuck… okay.” The idea that he’d be demanding something like Jaskier’s hand inside of him should have been disturbing, but his body didn’t think so at all. “Yes.”

“Lovely!” The bard smiled and continued on. “Would you like —-“

“Jaskier,” Geralt interrupted, “it’s easier if you just tell me what you don’t do. Then I’ll tell you what I don’t want.”

His companion sighed, but relented. “That’s not my practice, but we can try.” Jaskier paused to collect his thoughts, then began. “I don’t choke. I don't belittle or insult. I don't hit. I do not draw blood-“ He grimaced at that, and Geralt wondered if there was a history there. “Any blood means I will stop immediately and change the interaction.” That was more than fair. “I will have limits on my own body, and I will do my best to accommodate you while not straining myself. Those are the basics with omegas.” He waved his hand. “Alphas have an entire other list.”

Geralt tried to think of something to respond with. Something he didn’t like. “I don’t… like being teased. Do something or don’t.”

“Very reasonable. No edging then. Not a problem.”

A long moment of quiet passed between them before Geralt admitted: “I can't think of anything else.”

“Well I still have more things to ask.” Of course he did. Geralt wasn’t aware Jaskier was this thorough about anything except his poetry. No wonder there were rave reviews of his escorting services. “Would you like to be held?”

It should have been an easy answer, but Geralt’s body was already strained and his brain was doing its best to distract him. He liked being held after sex; it was a novelty that very few partners indulged. Whores charged a great deal extra, and seemed to be more disturbed with cuddling than they were with swallowing a cock. The idea that Jaskier would hold him after sex, no problem with it, was a relief. The bard had always been tactile, and Geralt knew he’d be petted and adored. 

“I would… like that.”

Jaskier either didn’t notice Geralt’s tumultuous emotional state, or he was being exceptionally kind and ignoring it.“Would you like for me to clean you?”

“When I can't do it myself, I guess.”

“Good. Because you’re going to get filthy and uncoordinated.” Jaskier reached for the wine again, filling his cup as if he didn’t just say something utterly obscene. “How would you like me to talk to you? Would you prefer I remain silent?”

That was funny enough to jerk Geralt out of his daze. “You have the ability to be silent?” Jaskier flipped him a rude finger as he drank. Geralt chuckled and thought for a moment. Did he want Jaskier to talk during sex? Normally he would say no- the bard was prone to ridiculous rambling and Geralt didn’t have the patience for that when he was fucking. However, he couldn’t help but recall watching Jaskier gentle Marla as he fucked her through her orgasm, cooing reassurances and soft praise. The idea of it being angled at himself sent a shiver up his spine. 

“Yes. I want you to talk.”

Jaskier wagged his eyebrows. “Lewdly?”

“Yes,” Geralt mumbled.

“Sweetly?

Yes, but he couldn’t just say that. “Not too sweet,” he growled. “I’m not some fair maiden.”

“Oh, I am very aware!” Jaskier laughed and winked at him playfully. Geralt didn’t have it in him to be annoyed, not when he noticed the bard subtly lick his lips before he spoke again. “Hm, would you like massages?”

“You already do that.”

“True. Would you like me to sleep in the same bed?”

“Where else would you sleep?”

Jaskier’s smile was smaller, more intimate and endearing. Geralt was surprised to see the pink flush dusting his cheeks. After all they’d talked about, sharing a bed with the friend you already share a bed with is hardly something to blush about. Did people not allow that? Were Jaskier’s clients kicking the bard to the sofa after he had done his part?

Geralt drank deeply to hide his scowl.

Jaskier perked up, moment gone. “Oh! I thought of more. Would you like me to pull your hair?”

The witcher was relieved he had already swallowed his wine, else he would have snorted it. “Yeah, that’s fine.”

Jaskier leaned forward, intent. Apparently he had a whole new list to ask about. “Would you like me to hold you down?”

Geralt doubted Jaskier could actually do that, but the idea of him even trying to do it was- appealing. “Yes, if you can.”

“Would you like me to bite you?

Okay, this was a good list. Geralt tried to nonchalantly place his hand in his lap. “Yes.”

“Would you like me to tell you what to do, when needed?”

That was… did Jaskier know Geralt’s personal proclivities or was he just fishing? Geralt didn’t indulge in that particular desire often, and the women who indulged him weren’t ones to talk. Jaskier must have guessed. “Yes,” he murmured, trying not to give himself away.

He failed at the next question.

“Would you like me to come inside you?”

“Fuck,” Geralt groaned, closing his eyes tight. His cock throbbed as it filed against his thigh. He knew he was obvious, and the embarrassment warred with the raw need that flushed through him. That shouldn’t have been as paralyzing as it was. Jaskier was silent, waiting for his answer, and all Geralt could do was nod. 

“Alright,” Jaskier said, gentle and low. Geralt risked opening his eyes, and was relieved to see his friend wasn’t looking at him with anything but warmth. “I’ll stop interrogating you now, I know you hate it.” Geralt’s cock certainly didn’t. Hearing Jaskier casually talk about all the things he was going to do to him was a strange sort of torture. “Do you have anything else you would like to discuss or ask?”

The witcher breathed deeply through his nose, nearly sneezing at the sink of his sweat and the cypress-sweet smell Jaskier had pointed out to him. Now that he noticed it, it was hard to ignore. Jaskier’s own light musk was barely detectable over Geralt’s. No wonder the bard could smell him.

This entire affair was bizarre and unfortunate, but at least it was manageable. Geralt felt slightly embarrassed about how he had reacted when Jaskier tried to take his leave. He’d chased him like a desperate omega, and even thinking of it caused Geralt to grimace. 

He had to ask. “Jaskier, you’re okay with this?”

Jaskier smiled, real and happy, and it put him at ease.“Geralt. Yes. I’m happy to help you,” he said.

Helping. That’s right. Jaskier was here to help. Geralt wondered why it wasn’t exactly a relief to hear it put that way, but it was enough.

“Okay.”

The bard stood and picked up the now empty bottle. “You need to do your meditation, see if it helps.” Jaskier turned to the kitchen. “I need to take stock of the house and what we have. You’re not going to eat for days, but I will very much need food. There was more wine in the cellar, and if that ghost didn’t make the cheese go bad, then that may still be good as well.”

Geralt settled back in the chair, pulling deep breaths. Meditation would be quite a task. “Ghosts can’t turn cheese,” he said.

“So far as you know,” Jaskier sniped from the kitchen. “But I think we will both appreciate it if I am not dying from rotten food in the next few days.”

“I’ll have no use for you then.” 

Jaskier popped his head around the door. “You said I can boss you about when needed.” Geralt grunted. “So here it is: shut it and do your meditation thing, please. I have chores to do and you’re going to need the rest.”

“That’s not the kind of bossy I signed up for,” Geralt complained, closing his eyes. The casual banter was relaxing him, bringing him back to something familiar. “I want my money back.”

The last thing Geralt heard before drifting off was a snort of laughter and Jaskier fussing in the kitchen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah that was like 3k words of kink negotiation and consent talking. Consent? In my A/B/O? It’s more common than you think.
> 
> I swear to god guys it’s going to happen. They are going to do the deed.


	4. The First Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt begins to feel it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to split the chapters because it was too much fucking for me to handle, haha!

The one thing Geralt liked about experiencing preheat was that it made him sleep. He fell asleep that evening with only a few deep breaths, and slept like the dead. It had been years since he did that without several bottles of alcohol or a concussion. The dreamless, dark sleep was a blessing hidden in a curse.

When he finally awoke mid morning the next day, something was different. He felt warmer, stifled, and agitated. Geralt grumbled and shifted, and noticed three things at once. First, Jaskier was snuggled up behind him, his face tucked against Geralt’s neck, snoring softly. That wasn’t too unusual, but his body became aware of it nearly violently. He mentally calmed himself to keep from grabbing at his friend. The second was also common; he was hard. That was just a cock rising with the sun. The fact that it was borderline painful was the unsettling part. The third was the worst, and Geralt couldn’t help but pull a face; there was something slimy and wet between his legs.

Geralt rolled onto his back, trying not to jostle Jaskier too much, and reached down into his smallclothes to investigate. His hand came up wet and coated in clear, slightly viscous liquid. It had a strong smell, a strange mix of musk and cedar. 

“Well, todays the day I guess,” slurred Jaskier as he brought his head up sleepily. His hair was a wreck.

“Is this normal?” Geralt said, pure disdain in his voice.

“Yes.” Jaskier sat up, taking some blankets with him and revealing Geralt’s impressive erection.”Don’t pull a face,” he scolded, “it’s there to keep you from injury.” 

That made sense, but it still wasn’t a great feeling, especially from where it was emanating. Geralt made to wipe his sopping hand off on the sheets, but Jaskier caught his wrist.

“I haven’t found a change of bedding yet. Let’s try to keep these as clean as we can for now,” he said. And then, without any fanfare at all, Jaskier leaned forward and began licking the slick off of Geralt’s fingers.

That should have been alarming, or disgusting, or strange, but the shock of heat that surged in Geralt’s pelvis was enough to make his hips twitch. Jaskier had closed his eyes and was cleaning his hand diligently, like it was soaked in honey. It made Geralt’s cock hurt.

When his hand was clean, Jaskier let it go and licked his lips, blinking sleepily. Geralt lay shock still, staring. His body was screaming for a lot of things, but he was afraid to let any of them out. Thankfully, his friend knew him better than most, and motioned nonchalantly at Geralt’s very prominent erection.

“Would you like me to take care of that?”

Geralt answered by scrambling up the bed to lean against the headboard, and pulling himself free from his smallclothes. Jaskier laughed warmly and moved to lay in the space between the witcher’s legs, his hair unkempt and his nightshirt open wide at the neck. Geralt twitched at the sight.

“This isn’t how I imagined this happening,” he muttered lowly. Jaskier quirked an eyebrow at him, hand poised to grab Geralt’s cock.

“You imagined this happening?” The bard asked, a funny note to his voice.

Geralt groaned and knocked his head back on the headboard. That was not something he should have said. Fuck. Heat was going to make him stupid, wasn’t it?

Jaskier took pity on him and didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he punched another groan from Geralt as he bent down and sucked the head of his cock into his mouth.

He was normally very well behaved when receiving oral. Geralt never moved, didn’t grab and definitely didn’t shove anyone down on his cock. He took what he was given, and enjoyed it. 

That all seemed to fail him with the onset of his heat. Jaskier barely had his mouth on him and Geralt’s hips surged up, pushing himself more than halfway, bumping the back of Jaskier’s throat. The bard took it brilliantly and instead of choking, had the confidence to laugh around Geralt’s cock, making him writhe at the vibration. Two graceful hands planted on Geralt’s hipbones and pushed him down into the mattress, his fingers squeezing little points of pressure. The message was clear: keep still.

Geralt bit at the inside of his cheek to keep from moaning as Jaskier began to bob his head at a steady pace, not tempting or teasing, but efficient and with a goal in mind. Geralt focused on his breathing, fighting the way his body wanted to move; he wanted to rock into the wet heat of him, to grind down against the bed, searching for something else. He realized that at some point he had slammed his eyes shut, trying to stanch the wild flood of arousal he was drowning in. Not seeing wasn’t helping him much; the wet, filthy noises painted a beautiful picture, regardless.

Jaskier always had a talented tongue, and the way it swirled around the head of his cock, cradled the shaft as he brought him deeper, was better than Geralt had dared imagine. And he had imagined it; there was no way to hear of the bard’s prowess in bed without picturing it. The reputation was well-earned.

Geralt fought a harsh twitch as Jaskier increased his pace. Some part of Geralt was ashamed that this was going to be brief. He liked to pride himself on his lasting power, but that wasn’t what a heat season was about. It was frequency, not finesse. He didn’t need to impress Jaskier with his ability to withstand a masterful cock sucking.

Thank the gods for that, because after only two minutes, Jaskier pulled a hand away from Geralt’s hips to cup his balls, giving them a gentle, encouraging squeeze. Gerat was doomed. The frenzied state of his body wasn’t going to allow any sort of longevity. 

Jaskier could tell. The bard took a deep breath and took his cock deeper, swallowing around him. At the same time, his fingers slipped beneath Geralt’s sack and pressed behind them, stroking firmly.

That was more than enough, and Geralt tried not to embarrass himself further by biting down on his hand, muffling himself into a shaky growl as he came, hips twitching.

The fact that Jaskier swallowed only made Geralt more dazed.

He felt Jaskier sit up, heard the obscene noise of him gulping and gasping, and was aware he had kept his eyes closed the entire time. Geralt squinted and blinked, trying not to feel embarrassed at how wanton his reactions were. This wasn’t normal for him.

“Alright there?” Jaskier said, voice slightly hoarse. Geralt’s breath shuddered in his chest.

For some reason, Geralt responded with; “I normally last a lot longer than that.”

Jaskier laughed openly, his face lit in delight. He patted Geralt’s thigh. “I don’t doubt that, my friend. Heat makes an omega incredibly sensitive, and the drive is high and wild. I’m not judging your stamina.” Jaskier rolled off the bed, reaching for the glass of water he had left on the nightstand. He took a quick gulp, and then handed the glass to Geralt.

He drank and tucked himself away, aware that these smalls would have to be burned with how much slick was in them. The witcher surreptitiously glanced at Jaskier’s groin, and was relieved to see he was hard. Some part of him feared he wouldn’t be aroused by their interactions. A deep inhale told him that no, Jaskier was indeed interested.

The bard stretched and groaned as his back popped, then ruffled his hair. “Well, want to clean up? I pulled a few buckets of water last night and managed to find towels, Melitele bless us.”

“Do you…” Geralt rumbled, pausing to now openly motion to the bulge in Jaskier’s pants. He didn’t exactly know what to offer. He wasn’t at Jaskier’s level of cock-sucking, but he’d never heard complaints.

Jaskier winked and waved him off. “Best not. We’ll save that for later.” Geralt felt a slight twinge of disappointment: he was a reciprocal lover. He didn’t like leaving someone unsatisfied. Jaskier must have seen it in his face, because the bard leered at him.

“Trust me, Geralt. You’re going to regret wasting a shot. I’m not the one in heat, and I’m not exactly young: I have my limits.” Jaskier reached down and adjusted himself, letting loose a small grunt as he did. His cheeks were flushed and eyes playful. “I’d like to be able to put it to use later.”

Geralt nodded, swallowing down the strange lump in his throat, and left it at that. 

* * *

As it turned out, Geralt’s version of heat agitation manifested in lots of movement. After he washed himself off and burned his smallclothes in the hearth, Geralt just started- for a lack of a better word- prowling. 

The witcher felt the need to check all corners of the house, open and close windows, move things around, listen and sniff for intruders like a damned dog and when everything seemed safe and quiet, just pace from room to room.

Jaskier ignored him for the first two hours of it, humming over Geralt’s unintelligible growls and shuffling. He’d managed to bake some hardtack for himself, and found some dried oats that were safe to boil. Adding what little flavor he could find, Jaskier made himself a dull gruel that he could dip into for a few days. There wasn’t much else in the house, but some preserved and dried foodstuffs would keep him going for the week.

The tenth time Geralt stomped through the kitchen, Jaskier gave up. “Come here, you great clod,” he said, absolutely no ire behind it. “You’re making me dizzy.”

Geralt went, his body eerily obedient. The witcher tried not to feel too strange about the relief that washed over him. He felt a lot better about it when Jaskier pulled him in by his hips and slipped from where he’d been seated, eating his lunch, to his knees instead.

“You can move your hips this time,” Jaskier offered, quick fingers already pulling the placket of his pants open. Geralt had been fighting back a wave of hot arousal in the last hour, and he was hard in a matter of seconds, leaving his head spinning. 

“Try not to suffocate me or dislocate my jaw, please.” Jaskier grinned at him sunnily, and then dove down to fit his lips around Geralt’s cock.

They’d just done this a short time ago, but it felt just as brilliant. Jaskier’s mouth was sweet relief; a balm on the aching burn that was creeping over the witcher’s skin. Being allowed to touch and move added a whole new level to it.

Geralt grit his teeth, fighting the urge to fuck hard into Jaskier’s waiting mouth. He didn’t trust his ability to temper his strength just yet, but the need was painful. He carefully cupped the bard’s jaw, letting his fingers flex gently to the underside of Jaskier’s chin and throat, and slowly rocked his hips. 

He could feel the swell and movement of Jaskier’s tongue against his fingers and the encouraging swallow constricting his throat. The rapid flutter of Jaskier’s pulse was like a lodestone. Geralt held him there gently, and moved. The pain and desperation subsided with each thrust.

It was unfortunate he’d kept his eyes closed earlier, because this was a sight. Jaskier’s cheeks were pinked and his dark eyelashes lay feathered against them. The fervent need was ebbing, replaced now with a surge of pleasure and relief. 

Geralt began to move a little faster, groaning at the delicious suction and friction. Feeling the flex and movement of Jaskier’s throat as he fucked into him was dizzying. The urge to take, to move roughly, was quieted. Jaskier’s mouth felt perfect and the frenzied buzzing under his skin all but disappeared. 

Jaskier’s hair was tousled and inviting. Geralt sighed and ran his fingers through the brown, thick locks. They were heavy and silken, well taken care of. The bard hummed in pleasure as Geralt pet through his hair. On the next stroke witcher scraped his nails against his scalp, and Jaskier shivered at the contact. Geralt bit at his lip, loving that he caused the reaction.

More sweat broke out on the witcher’s brow and he felt his balls tighten. It wasn’t going to be long.

Geralt brought both hands to Jaskier’s head and dragged his nails through the mess of his hair. Jaskier jolted, his throat constricting in a long moan at the unexpected caress.

The noise was a death knell, and Geralt barely had time to choke out Jaskier’s name in warning before he came. The bard took his pulsing cock deep, swallowing him down before he could even make a mess of Jaskier’s lips. 

Jaskier broke away with a gasp, and hauled himself back into the chair, wiping his mouth. “There,” he said, as if he had just done something mundane like fix Geralt’s boot, not suck him to the point of dizziness. “Now go relax. Let me finish my lunch.”

Geralt blinked muzzlily, exhaustion suddenly pulling at all his limbs. He closed his pants and huffed. “Just thought you wanted a drink with that.”

Jaskier barked a loud laugh, the kind he only gave when surprised into it. Geralt crinkled his eyes in amusement, and trudged off, seeking a soft surface. Jaskier’s spoon bounced harmlessly off of his shoulder as he left the kitchen.

* * *

Geralt tried to read a book, but getting comfortable was difficult. He was having trouble ignoring a particular ache in his backside, and the unsettling feeling of slick was eating away at his patience. 

He stripped himself down and gave himself a cursory wash again, scraping off the layers of sweat he’d already accumulated since that morning. It helped some, and dressed in loose sleeping clothes and flopped uselessly onto the oversized bed, bringing a dusty book with him. 

It was rare Geralt managed to take a nap, but his season was solving his insomnia issues by apparently giving him narcolepsy. He woke an undetermined time later, cheek on a page describing the life cycle of a moth, with a flash of heat and arousal. 

“What the fuck?” He groaned, rolling onto his back and kicking at a blanket that threatened to tangle his feet. The antsy desire to move was back, and with it the burning frustration of arousal. Geralt winced as he shifted, feeling the wetness between his thighs and his hard prick trapped against his hip. He ripped at the damp shirt on his back, throwing it to the ground, and wanted to discard his pants just as fervently. 

The pain in his groin was irritating, and although Geralt didn’t feel mindless with lust, he did certainly feel like he really needed to get laid. His body was wound up, as if he’d been edging for hours. It was maddening. 

Apparently hearing his cursing and rustling, Jaskier poked his head in from the great room. “You alright?”

“Jask,” Geralt rasped, pushing his hair out of his face. The sight of his friend brought some of the irritation down; he wasn’t alone here. “Jaskier, I think…” he broke off, screwing his lips into a scowl. Even though he knew he could trust Jaskier, even though he knew what he wanted- saying it was difficult.

Jaskier walked over to the side table and picked up a glass of water. “Drink, please.” He waited until Geralt took several gulps, and took the glass back.

This close, Geralt could smell him clearly over his own odor. His familiar scent was soothing, and Geralt’s pulse picked up as he smelled the rich undertones of arousal. It was reassuring to know that Jaskier wasn’t disinterested, even though he was not affected by the stink of heat the same way an alpha would be.

Jaskier reached out slowly, projecting his intent, and laid a cool hand on Geralt’s burning forehead. “It’s been a few hours. I imagine you’re uncomfortable.” He noticed the tightness in Geralt’s posture. “Do you need something inside?”

The witcher couldn’t bring himself to say anything at all, and nodded once. Jaskier smiled gently- such a friendly thing, but closed and refined. Geralt could smell the sour edge of nerves on him. 

Jaskier stripped efficiently, folding his clothing over a chair and collecting a towel and a little pot of oil, setting them on the side table. Geralt hadn’t moved at all, still sitting stiff in the bed. His skin was on fire, and he could feel his heart rate escalating. His breathing became heavier. He felt like he had run miles, aching and filled with adrenaline. 

Geralt was annoyed that he jumped as Jaskier set a knee on the mattress beside him, moving to get onto the bed. The startle stopped Jaskier dead, and the bard tipped his head at him, a frown pulling his lips.

“Are you sure?” He said, sitting down slowly with enough space between them to avoid contact. 

The witcher nodded. He needed something inside of him. The itching sensation was driving him mad, and it was only getting worse the longer he was awake. He felt like an animal in a trap, ready to chew its leg off. 

“It’s just,” Jaskier sighed, sitting back, “Geralt, you look like I’m going to walk you to the gallows. That’s not the way I want someone to look before I fuck them.”

Geralt struggled to school his expression, but after a decade and a half together, Jaskier could read each millimeter of his face like sheet music. “It’s not you,” Geralt said, voice rough. “Nothing is wrong with you.”

Jaskier made a noise that was almost mournful. He lifted his hand again, and set it on the back of Geralt’s head. His fingers massaged gently, the way they did when the bard washed his hair. The familiarity of it was enough to soften some of the stiffness in his spine.

The touch was calming, but it did nothing to ease the burn. Geralt was still stronger than the heat, still able to hold it from driving him into a mindless, pathetic beast. It hadn’t taken him yet, and he loathed the thought that it eventually would.

“Geralt,” Jaskier said, “remember when I got poisoned by that bog water? In Razwan?”

The witcher tilted his head, surprised and relieved to be distracted. “Yeah. Hag tainted it. You got sick.”

Jaskier nodded and grimaced. “I vomited on myself twice, had a fever that made me hallucinate and say insane things to you, soiled myself, and then mistook you for a ghost and started screaming.”

“Hm.” Geralt remembered that fiasco. That last part had been fairly funny.

Jaskier patted his shoulder and gave him an unimpressed look. “I’m sorry, but that was so much worse than this. You had to clean me up like I was a baby as I spilled my guts, literally and figuratively, for two days.” It had been messy, but Geralt was too worried about Jaskier dying to care about that. “You spoon fed me, had to deal with me crying my eyes out, and I also think I slapped you?”

He had. Though Geralt hadn't blamed him; he had been changing the bard’s pants when Jaskier came to with a jolt, and smacked him across the face. It actually left a mark. Geralt had been impressed. 

“So what?”

Jaskier rolled his eyes and slapped Geralt’s arm lightly. The playful swipe was harmless, but Geralt still grunted, partially to appease Jaskier. “I’m saying all this because you’re embarrassed and ashamed right now. It's a few of the rare feelings that come a bit too easily for you.” Jaskier gestured to himself, in nothing but his smalls. “When I was sick, did you feel disgust towards me?”

The answer was immediate. “No.”

Jaskier nodded, and smiled again. This one was genuine, wrinkling the small, charming crow’s feet at the corner of his eyes. “Then you know I don’t feel anything like that towards you.”

“It’s different,” Geralt snapped. 

“Only because I am enjoying taking care of you,” Jaskier said. “I’m sure taking care of me then wasn’t nearly as nice.”

Geralt closed his eyes, trying to believe that Jaskier was telling the truth. He only smelled nerves from his friend, no notes of disgust. The hand that left his hair returned, combing through it. It caused a shiver down his spine and Geralt tried not to grimace; he didn’t want Jaskier to think it was his touch that caused such a negative expression.

He took a deep breath. “It’s… the loss of control,” he admitted. Watching humans succumb to their ruts and heats was alarming enough, but experiencing it now, so late in his life and with all the knowledge of the horrors that it could entail? It was repulsive on an entirely new level. 

“My dear witcher,”Jaskier said, bringing his fingers down to Geralt’s neck and kneading the muscle there, “you lose control when you’re toxic and hallucinating. You lose control when you’re drunk off of Gull. At least in this, there’s someone who keeps that control safe for you that you can trust. Me.” He leaned in, bumping their shoulders in comradery. 

“Now,” Jaskier said, taking his hands away and clapping once, as if to change the scene, “what can I do to help you? What do you need from me?”

Geralt stared at his knees, trying to think. He knew what his body demanded. He wanted to say ‘fuck me’, he wanted to just spit it out. He was burning up, hot then cold, empty and wanting. He needed it. 

Instead, he asked: “Kiss me?”

Jaskier let loose a soft sound of surprise and Geralt could see him straighten up. 

He thought, for a moment, that he would be told no. That he had requested something too intimate too quickly, but Jaskier had offered it in their conversation. It was the first thing he had asked if Geralt wanted, surely it was acceptable to ask for it.

Then, there was a hand against Geralt’s jaw. He allowed his face to be turned, and he was being kissed, warm and affectionate. Jaskier crowded him, his touch confident and calming. It wasn’t the lewd kiss of a prostitute, or the timid first peck of a new lover. Jaskier kissed him with the same energy he did when he stitched Geralt’s wounds, when he was quick to respond with a joke. His kiss was natural and knowing, a sure step in a dance. Geralt was caught with it, following Jaskier’s lead, and found his back against the linens, his face caressed and mouth opened to a skilled tongue. 

It was like being thrown in the water, and discovering the body instinctively knew how to swim. Geralt’s hands pulled at the man above him, ran down the slope of an unscarred back, gripped at a hip that had softened slightly in age. He let his head be tilted and lips bit, shuddered at the wet press of a tongue against his own. The burn was lessened, but in its retreat, the ache grew. Jaskier’s fingers drug down his chest, raking through the hair there and catching on a nipple as he gave the firm muscle a squeeze. The noise that was pulled from his throat was alien to him, pleading in a way he never would have dared.

Jaskier responded by pulling back, but before Geralt could have a second to worry, the bard was wrestling out of his smallclothes. Geralt caught on and shoved at his pants, kicking the garment off his legs like it was a snake. Jaskier let out a small laugh as a foot got caught, and leaned down to help free him. Geralt took the momentary pause to stare openly at Jaskier’s cock, already hard and flushed prettily. He was reaching for him before he had time to think, hand closing tight around Jaskier’s length and stroking him. 

The gasped and shifted away, but Geralt wouldn’t allow it. He growled lowly, used his other hand to haul the man closer.

“You too, this time,” he murmured. “I need you to.” He couldn’t stand another one-sided encounter. He needed Jaskier’s pleasure almost as much as he needed his own. 

“Yes,” the bard gasped, letting himself be settled half over Geralt. “Yes, okay. Here, let me.”

Geralt nearly lost what coordination he had when Jaskier’s own hand slipped between his thighs. He exhaled roughly as he felt Jaskier’s fingers slide down between his cheeks, but the noise was drowned out as the bard moaned and shook. His cock pulsed in Geralt’s palm.

“Fuck, you’re so wet,” Jaskier whined, his fingers pressing against Geralt’s hole. “Do you want me to…”

Geralt didn’t let him finish the question, and hastily turned himself over, rutting his cock on the mattress. What shame he felt at exposing himself was overpowered by the ache to be filled. It’s a strange desire, and only growing. The air was cold against his slick-wet thighs and Geralt shifted and groaned when Jaskier’s hands didn't immediately return.

“Jask…” he growled, reaching back to find him.

“I’ve got you, one moment,” Jaskier said, moving hurriedly. He grabbed the towel off the side table and encouraged Geralt to lift his hips enough to slide it under him. 

The witcher wanted to snap at Jaskier to forget the fucking linens and get on with it already, but Jaskier was quick and sliding between Geralt’s thighs, spreading them wider. His fingers returned, pressing in and rubbing against Geralt’s hole.

The breech of one finger shouldn’t have been enough to push a long, stuttered breath from him, but Geralt found the relief incredible. He buried his face in the cradle of his arms, hiding in the dark and focusing on the stretch. One was nothing, his body relaxing naturally from the heat, and Jaskier had two inside of him within the next thrust.

The sound the slick made as Jaskier’s fingers fucked into him only made Geralt want to hide further. 

Jaskier had no such issue with it. “Gods, you’re so wet,” he moaned, voice caught deep in his chest. “I know you think it’s foul, but fuck, Geralt. It’s so sexy.” The fingers inside of him spread, forcing a stretch. It wouldn’t be long before a third could slide alongside. “You were walking around all day and I just knew you were slick and wanting.”

Geralt could hear the lust in Jaskier’s voice, smell the rich scent of the precum beading on his cock. He wanted more, and Jaskier accomodated, a third finger pressing in. The stretch was finally noticeable.

“There you are,” the bard cooed, “that's it.”

Geralt rocked his hips back, urging the fingers deeper. “Come on…”

“Soon, darling. A little more,” Jaskier said, fucking his fingers in shallow motions, spreading them steadily to ease him open. Geralt breathed deep, concentrating on relaxing the tight clench of his muscles. The slide became easier and Jaskier murmured praise as he was stretched to his satisfaction.

With the pressure inside of him building, Geralt felt instinct try to push him up onto his knees, giving him the ability to move against the intrusion. He growled in frustration, the penetration not quite enough. “Jaskier… please.”

“Okay,” the man squeaked, slipping his fingers free and scrambling to get in a better position. He helped Geralt settle on all fours, and kneeled up behind him. “Oh, fuck you look so good…” Jaskier said, voice a needy rush. His cock slid in the slick coating the cleft of Geralt’s ass, forcing a whine out of the both of them.

Finally, the blunt head of Jaskier’s cock pressed inside of him, the stretch enough to make Geralt shake. He hadn’t been penetrated in years, not quite trusting recent partners with the task. The ache was delicious and right where he needed it, and Geralt fought himself not to rock back too quickly, forcing his body to accept it. Jaskier was certainly admired for more than his charm and skill set in bed: his cock was fat and full and feverishly hot, and he fucked into Geralt with a steady, careful pressure.

He paused once he’ fully sheathed, hands tight to Geralt’s hips, trying to hold him still, but the Witcher’s patience was gone. He had enough leverage to pull himself off of Jaskier’s cock and press back again, insistent. 

“Oh,” the bard gasped, trying to move in tandem with Geralt’s rocking, meeting him halfway with firm thrusts that had the witcher groaning. Geralt hung his head between his arms, his hair loose and wild pulling deep, desperate breaths. He felt dizzy with pleasure, the need that had been burning away inside him was finally being slaked. His cock was hard and heavy, swinging between his legs, and the sight of it, with Jaskier’s flexing thighs behind his own, was sinful.

He was lost in the rhythm, loving the feeling of Jaskier’s fingers stamping points of pressure into his hips, panting perversely at the wet, obscene noises. Things that he would be mortified with later were music to him now, driving him mad. 

The grip on his hips changed, and Jaskier’s palm, spit-slick, closed around Geralt’s cock, forcing a sob out of him at the added stimulation. He choked the noise down. Jaskier shifted, leaned over Geralt’s back, forcing him to take more of his weight as he kissed and licked between his shoulder blades, dragging his mouth teeth along the scarred, sweaty skin. The coarse scratch of Jaskier’s chest hair against his back made Geralt press back into him harder.

There was a slight shift, Jaskier keeping a firm fist around Geralt’s cock and trying for more leverage. The angle change caused the witcher to stiffen up and shout as the cock inside of him hit just right.

“Oh, right there?,” Jaskier purred against his skin. And suddenly both hands were tight on his hips again as he lifted himself up and angled downward with his thrusts. He fucked down relentlessly, hard and deep and sure, and Geralt couldn’t hear Jaskier’s ragged breathing over his own utterly animal noises. His arms went out from under him and he collapsed onto his elbow, other hand flying down to relieve his cock. The pressure built blindingly fast, and Geralt turned his face down into the mattress again, muffling his desperate yell as he came, body shaking apart.

Jaskier fucked him through it, slowing gradually to ease him down. “Fuck, you’re beautiful. You took it so well,” he said, voice soothing. His hands stroked down Geralt’s back, thumbs digging into the tight knot of muscle still pinching in the small of it. Geralt shuddered as Jaskier pulled loose from his body gently, trying not to overstimulate. 

The fog of his orgasm faded as Jaskier flopped on the bed next to him, breathing heavily. Geralt looked over at him, taking in the flushed, handsome face and dopey smile. His gaze caught on Jaskier’s wet cock, still swollen and twitching, laying against his hip. Something in Geralt flared at the sight of it. This was the third time they had had sex, and Jaskier hadn’t orgasmed once. 

With a snarl, Geralt straddled Jaskier’s hips, reaching back to grab onto his prick and guide it back inside.

“Geralt,” Jaskier gasped, twitching as his cock was encased in tight heat again. He scrambled at Geralt’s thighs as the witcher sank down onto him. 

Geralt felt even more full, resting all of his weight on Jaskier’s hips. He lifted himself up, riding Jaskier’s cock with determination. The depth made Geralt gasp with each thrust, and he bowed his head as he moved on top of the smaller man. His own cock was hard again, renewed with the combination of heat and his own stamina, and Jaskier took him in hand, jerking him in tandem with Geralt’s movements. 

“Oh gods,” Jaskier said, voice thin and tight. He was shaking apart under Geralt, chest heaving. “I’m going to cum, Geralt.”

The witcher growled in pleasure and Jaskier was lost, twitching under him as he reached his peak. Geralt shivered as he felt the cock inside him pulse and fill him with wetness. Jaskier let loose a long, broken noise, and Geralt stiffened up at the sound of him, his own second orgasm cresting close behind. His cum painted long, wet stripes across Jaskier’s belly.

The dismount is less graceful, and Geralt grunted at the feeling of loss as he collapsed next to his companion.

There’s quiet for a moment, both of them catching their breath. Jaskier grabbed feebly at the towel on the bed, cleaning the pooling cum on him before turning and offering it to Geralt.

He took it and swiped at the fluids leaking from him. He should have been disgusted by the slick and spend leaking from his body, but it made him feel satisfied instead.

Something did disturb Geralt’s post-orgasmic haze. “I didn’t ask if that was okay,” he said, looking over to Jaskier. He mounted the man without permission.

Jaskier grinned and waved him off. “That was more than okay. It was gorgeous.” Geralt hummed, pleased. “Are you alright?”

The witcher sighed. “Feel good,” he mumbled. The heat ache all but disappeared with the second orgasm, and now fatigue reared up behind it. “Want to sleep again,” he admitted.

Jaskier laughed and rolled clumsily out of bed, wiping sweat from his forehead and throwing the towel unceremoniously on the floor. “That’s heat for you: fucking, sleeping, and being agitated.” He stretched and gave Geralt an appraising look. “It's already evening. I’m going to get more water for you and then you can sleep.”

He was back in a few minutes, a full goblet of water in hand, and made Geralt drink all of it. 

“Go ahead and go to sleep. I need to see to Roach.”

Geralt shifted under the linens, only marginally dirty from their actions. He felt heavy, his body tingling in sweet relief. Falling asleep would be easy.

“You’ll be back?” He asked muzzily as Jaskier made for the door.

“Of course,” he said, voice reassuring, “I'll be right beside you.”

* * *

The relief of their coupling was short-lived. Geralt woke in the earlier part of the morning, long before the sun rose, to a painful erection and a needy clench at his backside. He was wet again, most likely a mix of his slick and Jaskier’s cum, and the feeling of it made his hips twitch. 

Desperate with need, he swiped his hand in the growing slick, and used the lubrication to ease his cock. Geralt fisted it hurriedly, but it didn’t feel quite right. The need for something deeper made him growl in frustration.

Help came in the form of a sleepy bard, shuffling up against his back, a hot mouth kissing at his neck and shoulders.

“Fuck,” Geralt cursed, moving back against him, “I can’t…”

“Shh, “ Jaskier whispered, lips and teeth dragging deliciously across skin, “this is normal. Do you want my fingers?”

Geralt nodded fervently, canting his hips back to the questing touch that slid between his cheeks, two fingers pressing in with little resistance.

“There you go,” Jaskier purred, crooking his fingers just right to strike Geralt’s prostate. There’s no hesitation now, now that Geralt is still pliant from being fucked.

“Stroke yourself. I’ll help.”

The witcher groaned and picked up the pace, the double stimulation driving him close almost immediately. Jaskier fucked his fingers into him ruthlessly, matching the desperate energy of Geralt’s fist. It took only a minute, but what sent him over wasn't the pressure inside or the friction against his cock, but the hot scape of teeth against his neck.

His orgasm was a shock, ripping through him violently. He choked on his breath, and Jaskier purred against his skin.

“There we are, darling.”

Geralt tried not to shiver at the endearment, and grabbed for a rag, wiping his hand clean. Jaskier reached over him lazily, letting Geralt clean him off as well. 

He thanked him with a kiss to the side of his neck, and Geralt bit back a whine at the lovely feeling that rippled down his spine. 

“Sleep, my friend.” Jaskier settled down again, chest to Geralt’s back, arm draped across his waist. The darkness pulled him down, but with Jaskier at his back, Geralt fell into it willingly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know about any errors. Comments seriously bring me insane joy so please feed me.


	5. The Second Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt gets more needy, and tries not to hate himself for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love you all. Here’s more filth.

Geralt was surprised to wake alone. Normally, someone getting out of bed would have woken him as well, but the witcher was sleeping obscenely well. He felt that the dreamless, dead sleep he was getting during the heat was enough to make it worth the struggle.

His body ached pleasantly, and the itch or arousal was not yet painful. He rolled out of bed, grimacing at the fluids on the inside of this thighs. He needed to clean up.

There was a bucket of wash water near the desk. Jaskier mention there was a tub in the shed, and he planned to roll it in sometime that day, so a bucket would do for now.

Geralt didn’t care about splashing water across the floorboards. He washed hastily, cleaning the essentials, scraping off the rime of sweat on his skin. There was a towel draped over the chair, slightly damp. Jaskier must have done the same when he woke. 

Geralt dried himself quickly, but when he passed the towel over his face, he paused. 

The towel smelled good, like Jaskier. His scent was always familiar and safe, true, but now it was tinged with the rich perfume of sex, and most importantly, Geralt himself. Memories and sensations from the night before assaulted him: the sweet relief of Jaskier’s cock, his stunned face as Geralt rode him, the beautiful noises he made. His body shook with the memory, and the ache roared back to life.

Geralt breathed deeply, shutting his eyes as pain spread. It was alarming how fast it struck, coming at him like a serpent’s bite. He staggered towards the bed again, knees weak. Geralt wanted to snarl in frustration. He felt powerless to the curse of his heat.

The front door opening was a relief. Jaskier could help. Jaskier could cure him.

Geralt must have made a noise, called out somehow, because Jaskier was there in the doorway, smelling of musk and safety and the fresh grass of the outdoors.

“Oh dear,” he said, coming in. “Lay down, Geralt. I’m sorry, I was just out seeing to Roach.”

“I was fine,” Geralt mumbled, falling onto the bed. He was thankful he was already naked. His skin hurt. “Now I… I need…”

Jaskier nodded, stripping away his shirt hastily. “The second and third days are the worst, I’m afraid.”

Geralt was half laying on his front, and rolled onto his belly without thinking. Distantly, he was aware he was bent over the corner of the bed, ass on display. The embarrassment of it was a long way off, dampened to nothing by the ache to be touched, filled. Jaskier didn’t seem to mind, and moved behind him, drawing a harsh breath.

“Geralt,” he said, voice close to a prayer, “I would like to use my mouth, is that alright?”

The very idea of it made the witcher jerk against the mattress, his cock already hard. He nodded fervently. Jaskier’s hands came down to grip his buttocks, spread them apart to see him. Geralt shivered as he felt a trickle of slick leave him.

“Fuck,” Jaskier whimpered, the noise small and wounded. The rest of his exclamation he muffled against Geralt’s skin.

Any shame or trepidation was quick to be chased away by the hot swipe of tongue against his hole. The sensation made him jerk and he spread his thighs further apart, letting Jaskier sink to the floor in between them. 

Geralt had done this himself to lovers who were open to it, but hadn’t had an offer on the receiving end. Most people wanted a witcher to dominate them, and this particular position was a delicate one. 

The feeling of a tongue swirling and lapping at him, caressing his still sensitive hole, was unlike anything he’d felt before. Jaskier’s tongue was softer than a finger, and moved in delicious undulations and twitches against him. Geralt was aware he was sighing into the bed linens with each breath, struggling not to push back against him. 

After a minute, Jaskier came up, gasping for air. “Gods,” he groaned, “you taste so good, better than any wine.” Geralt tried not to hitch his hips back too plaintively in response. Jaskier dipped down again, laving long licks from behind his sack up the cleft of his ass, cleaning away the slick and saliva. “I could drink you, Geralt.”

He dove back down again, bringing his tongue to a point and pushing in, fucking him tentative flicks, convincing Geralt’s hole to relax. Geralt tore into the sheets under him, trying to cool his head as the need for more rippled through him. Jaskier kept his promise, and didn’t tease. A finger slid in alongside his tongue, curling and thrusting to add to the stretch. It banked the fire slightly, made the witcher less inclined to snarl at Jaskier to just fuck him already. His mouth was gorgeous, but this wasn’t supposed to be slow, sensual lovemaking. Geralt was going to lose his mind if he didn’t get filled.

Jaskier sensed it, and screwed another finger into him, twisting them as they sunk in deep, his tongue lapping sweetly at the rim of stretched muscle. Geralt sighed, dropped his head against the sheets and focused on relaxing, loving the feeling as Jaskier pressed his tongue in between his trapped fingers. 

“S’good,” the witcher mumbled against the mattress, twitching back against Jaskier’s mouth, “m’good. Come on.”

The bard pulled his face away with an obscene wet noise, humming contentedly. Geralt managed to lift his head enough to peer behind him. Jaskier was staring, dazed, at his fingers as they fucked into Geralt.

“Stop looking,” Geralt growled, hand reaching back to swat harmlessly at him, “get inside.”

Jaskier nodded fervently, knocked from his stupor, and pulled his fingers free. Geralt snarled louder as the sudden emptiness caused the ache to come roaring back. 

“Sorry,” he said, scrambling to his feet. Jaskier grabbed at the small pot of oil on the nearby table and drizzled some into his palm. “Saliva isn’t going to be enough, and most of your slick is on my face,” he explained, quickly swiping the oil over his cock.

Geralt shuddered at the thought of that, of painting Jaskier’s face with his fluids and scent. It only made him reach back at him more frantically, demanding. 

“Get inside me,” he snapped, hand catching on a wrist and hauling it to his hip, pulling Jaskier along.

“With pleasure, I assure you.”

The stretch was easy and now oil-slick, and Geralt gasped in relief as he was penetrated. He couldn’t stop pressing back against Jaskier, impaling himself. The bard groaned and tried to catch Geralt’s hips to slow him down, but he wouldn’t have it. He needed to be fucked. Jaskier needed to fill him and quiet the volatile urge his body was forcing upon him.

Geralt got his arms under him, pushing up off the mattress to get more leverage. Jaskier cursed and began to move with him, meeting Geralt halfway. The deep, firm thrusts finally quelled the demands his body made of him, and Geralt groaned in relief. Pleasure welled up where the ache had been. 

Geralt was peripherally aware Jaskier was talking, muttering frantic encouragement and moaning appreciatively. 

“Take what you want, darling,” he said, struggling to hold on with the sweat and oil on their skin. Geralt lifted one leg onto the bed and Jaskier squeaked and scrambled after him, fitting against his back and clutching at him to stay in place. The new position allowed Geralt to ride Jaskier easier, limiting the man’s movements when Geralt sat up, putting his ass down firmly on Jaskier’s lap. 

He had told him to take what he wanted. Geralt was complying. 

The position they were in didn’t allow Geralt to look at Jaskier as he rocked down onto him, but the noises the bard made was enough to tell he was enjoying himself. Geralt knew he had days more stamina and several men’s strength on Jaskier, so he tried his best not to overwhelm him. He felt like he could fuck himself on Jaskier’s cock for hours, but it wasn’t realistic, and from the broken gasps and shudders coming from the man under him, Jaskier wasn’t going to last long. 

Geralt spit into his palm and brought it down to his prick, determined to bring himself to Jaskier’s pace. He leaned back and the fat cock inside him struck just the right spot, and Geralt tossed his head and groaned with relief. Jaskier cursed and dragged his fingernails down Geralt’s back, as he slammed down against him harder. The collision of their hips was borderline painful. Geralt felt his body tighten as his orgasm rolled over him. Jaskier jerked as Geralt’s muscles contracted around him and came with a broken cry. The feeling of him spilling inside wrenched a pleased growl from the witcher, and he ground down on Jaskier’s spent cock.

The bard had his arms tightly wrapped around Geralt’s waist, and breathed hard against his sweat-slick back. Geralt heard the thundering of his heart, even felt it in the prick inside him.

“Geralt,” Jaskier wheezed against his skin, loosening his hold and trying to budge from under him, “fuck, you’re intense.”

The witcher laughed and sighed, raking his hair out of his face as he caught his breath. Jaskier wriggled, but was having trouble freeing himself from under his weight. 

“Darling?” Jaskier pleaded thinly. “Can you let me up?”

“Hmm,” Geralt said, thinking on it. The feeling of Jaskier’s cock nestled inside of him was strangely pleasing. He clenched down against it and Jaskier gasped and pushed weakly at the small of his back.

“Please,” he said, voice thin and high, “it hurts.”

Geralt moved off of Jaskier so fast he nearly slid off the end of the mattress, eyes wide and worried. 

“What did I do?” He said, reaching frantically for him.

The bard smiled and winced, letting Geralt grab at him and pull him closer. The witcher stared, confused, at Jaskier’s cock. “It’s okay,” he reassured, “I just get sensitive, and omegas in heat sometimes clamp down rather hard after orgasm.” He placed a hand gently over his bits and gave Geralt a forgiving smile. “It’s your body trying to hold a knot, but for a non-knotting partner, it’s a bit painful.”

Something on Geralt’s face made Jaskier lean forward and plant a light kiss between his eyebrows. Caught between guilt, horror and the gentle affection, the witcher blinked at him and frowned. 

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, squeezing Jaskier’s bicep gently. The bard leaned in to kiss him again, and Geralt met him halfway, pressing his apology to the man’s lips.

“This is new for you, Geralt. I’m not angry. I know your body is demanding things of you.” Jaskier patted his cheek and made to get up, slipping out of his grip.

Jaskier went to the bucket near the desk, wetting the rag Geralt used earlier and wiping himself down. He rinsed it again, wrung it and tossed to Geralt, still half on the bed. 

“Thanks,” he grumbled, still feeling off. He cleaned quickly, watching as Jaskier bent down and splashed his face. Geralt felt a slight shiver knowing that Jaskier was rinsing his dried slick off his cheeks and chin. 

After he cleaned himself, Jaskier pulled his clothes on again, talking casually about needing to go out to scavenge as Geralt found his pants. The witcher felt strange, unsettled. His body had hurt Jaskier and he wasn’t aware it was happening. He was normally so careful with humans. He hadn’t hurt anyone by accident in decades.

“Geralt.”

The witcher looked over to Jaskier, pulled from his rumination. “Hm?”

“Stop beating yourself up. I’m alright,” Jaskier said, leaning into his space again. Geralt grunted and accepted the arm that wrapped around him, pulling him close and bringing their foreheads together. “I should have told you sooner, but it didn’t come up last night, and I forget that your experience in this field is, well, near nothing.”

Geralt huffed a short sigh. “Next time, you be in control,” he muttered. “I’ll stay on my belly.”

“As beautiful as that vision is, you riding my cock is a true masterpiece and I will never say no to it.” Jaskier gave him a squeeze and let go. “Just keep in mind that once you finish, I can’t keep my cock in you for more than a few seconds before you try to crush me.” He winked. “My cock is fine, I’m in one piece, please relax.”

Geralt grunted, but let it go. He didn’t care what Jaskier said: he wasn’t mounting the bard again. Jaskier went off into the main room, announcing that he was heading out to forage. Geralt grabbed the book he’d left on the floor and followed, settling himself in the large, luxurious chair in front of the dark hearth. He flipped through the book, looking at the various diagrams and sketches of insects it spoke about. He managed to distract himself with a fairly interesting observation about millipedes, and tried his best to drown out the constant buzz that was his hormonal fugue.

* * *

  
  


The morning warmed up pleasantly, and one Geralt could no longer stand another sentence about bugs, he got up and prowled around the house in nothing but a thin pair of pants. The restlessness was back, and he was strangely groggy as well. There was a large window in the front room, and he threw it open.

Geralt hung his head out the window and he nearly moaned in relief. He could smell the leaves unfurling and various flowers beginning their bloom. The fresh air woke him up, clearing away the constant fog of sex and sweat that lingered around the house. 

Roach was tied near one of the sheds, happily trimming the grass. She had already cleaned up around the stables, and was enjoying all the overgrown flora the yard had to offer. It looked as though Jaskier had a chance to brush her. At least she was enjoying her vacation. She spied Geralt in the window and brought her head up, mouth full. 

“Hey Roach,” Geralt croaked, squinting out at her. He was unaware how dark the house was until he looked outside. The contrast made his head hurt. 

She nickered sweetly at him, tossing her head. The rest would do her good, and Jaskier was taking care of her. Geralt was relieved. 

The restlessness had him away from the window a few minutes later, the need to move too strong to keep him in one spot. He couldn’t get himself to go outside just yet, the nesting urge he had heard about was hard at work keeping him in place. An omega in estrus knew not to wander, especially if they had a partner. Geralt was used to strange instincts: he had acquired a few of them through the Trials. His sense of smell was more like a dog’s than a human, and with it came urges and impulses he had to school and hide. He often wanted to sniff newcomers, and learned to do it subtly. Eye contact was another he had to relearn. Maintaining eye contact to most animals was a threat, but to humans it was often a sign of honesty and integrity. Other witchers understood the strange behaviors the mutagens instilled, but humans often saw them as a sign of otherness. 

There was a low singing coming from the kitchen, and Geralt followed it. Jaskier was standing at the table, chopping spring greens he found growing against the house. There wasn’t much to eat in storage, but there was enough to scrounge together enough to keep the man from hunger. When Geralt had his urges under control, he would have to hunt. Jaskier was useless at it, though he had learned how to set a snare well enough. There was no way the bard could survive without knowing the basics of gathering food. 

“Up and about?” Jaskier tossed over his shoulder, the tune still on his tongue. It wasn’t his normal loud and open singing, but something more quiet to fill the air. Geralt had a suspicion that Jaskier was keeping it mellow for his sake.

The witcher grunted in affirmation, crowding against Jaskier and peering over his shoulder to see what he'd managed to forage. He’d amassed a fistful of leeks and had small piles of fiddleheads and nettle leaves. Not the most flavorful harvest, but it was spring still. Human-safe greens were fairly scarce. Geralt could handle almost any greenery if he felt so inclined. Jaskier, not so much.

He set his chin on Jaskier’s shoulder, pleased that the bard didn’t jump at the contact. He’d said that physical closeness was allowed, and Geralt was drawn in like a magnet. Having the warm figure against his chest was soothing, and as Jaskier moved on to humming from singing, the vibration had Geralt leaning in harder. 

Jaskier finished with the leeks and moved on to the fiddleheads, pulling the brown skin from the bases to leave nothing but brilliant green shoots. Geralt smiled to himself, remembering he’d shown Jaskier how to do it. The man never talked about it, but Geralt knew he had grown up in a pampered household. He had to learn how to cook and forage, and the witcher realized a lot of it was learned from watching Geralt do it. Once he’d figured that out, he made sure to clean game properly, and to show Jaskier what plant he was picking and for what, telling him plainly what would and would not kill him. He didn't want the bard grabbing potion ingredients and poisoning himself on accident. 

“I guess it was too much to ask to have the garden in any sort of shape, what with them running off right after moving in,” Jaskier said, leaning back against Geralt as he worked. “I got lucky with the leeks, and there may be turnips and endive in that mess, but not for a long while, yet.” 

Geralt knew Jaskier didn’t expect responses from him, especially not now. His quiet presence was enough, and Jaskier moved on to clean the nettles. Geralt touched his nose to the soft skin behind the bard’s ear, sniffing him carefully. Jaskier never bothered to tease Geralt for his impulse sniffing anymore, so that was as good as permission. The scent of him was soothing, and the smell of fresh picked greens added a bright note to it.

“Not that I am complaining, but I need to get these in the pot,” Jaskier said, nudging Geralt lightly. He let go begrudgingly. Jaskier scooped up the greens and dumped them in the simmering pot on the cook fire. They would stew into a weak soup. Jaskier shaved some salt into the mix and stood back, regarding the steaming vegetables.

“I’d give Lettenhove for some butter and a soup bone,” he said. It would be a plain meal, but he wouldn’t need to share it. Geralt hadn’t felt hunger in days. At least not for food.

Grumbling to himself, Geralt closed in on Jaskier again, needing contact. He hadn’t bothered with a shirt, what with his intermittent hot spells, and he wrapped his arms around Jaskier’s waist to pull him up against his chest. The bard huffed out a laugh and tipped his head back, brushing their temples together. 

“Sorry,” Geralt mumbled into his neck. This need for touch wasn’t alien to him; Geralt enjoyed embraces when he dared to allow them, it was just that this impulse was much stronger than any needs he had previously indulged. The witcher liked to think his self-control was stronger than most men, but the drive he was experiencing was akin to a possession. He felt as though his arms and legs moved without his permission.

“Nonsense,” Jaskier whispered, his breath rustling Geralt’s hair, “you want contact, you can have it. You’ve been very reasonable and sane so far. No chafing at all.”

Geralt chuckled, mouth pressed to the firm muscle on Jaskier’s shoulder. “Can’t have that.” 

He was aware that his own cock was half hard- it had been for a while, and he had it nudged up against Jaskier’s ass, fighting the urge to grind into him. The bard didn’t seem to have a problem with it, and tilted his hips encouragingly. Geralt fought back a needy noise.

“You know,” Jaskier said, his own hands petting Geralt’s forearms where they were wrapped around his waist, “we can do that, too. It’s been a while since I serviced a male omega; I didn’t even think about asking if you’d like to fuck me.”

Geralt groaned, hips twitching. He bit lightly at the clothed flesh under him, trying to stifle himself. The thought of taking Jaskier apart like that was gorgeous; laying him out and fucking him, stroking his prostate until he babbled and sang. He wanted it, but not now. He couldn’t do it now. He didn’t trust himself to have complete control over his strength, and he could hurt Jaskier far too easily in his condition.

“After,” Geralt growled, trying to ease his hold, lest he crush the poor man in his grip. Jaskier needed to be the guide: Geralt was walking this path blind. Until he could see again, he wouldn’t risk it.

In his arms Jaskier shivered and took several deep breaths. Geralt was drunk off of the heady scent of arousal, and the bard’s heart picked up a frantic pace. Geralt could feel it beat in his own chest.

“Okay,” Jaskier whispered. “After.”

He turned in Geralt’s arms, pulling away enough to get his hands in between them. He pushed Geralt back a few steps until his ass hit the table, and dropped down to his knees.

“Come on,” he said, tugging at the loose pants Geralt had on, “let me take care of you.”

Geralt stripped his trousers, thankful he hadn’t worn shoes so he could shuck them off faster. He also hadn’t bothered with anything under. Jaskier chuckled at his enthusiasm and took his quickly stiffening cock in hand.

Jaskier’s mouth was just as perfect as the time before, his talented tongue stroking the underside of his cock, his cheeks hollowing to suck him deeper. Geralt pet at his hair, holding his hips still as Jaskier worked him.

The attention on his cock felt wonderful, but the need for something inside him was a constant ache, now. Geralt hooked his ankle around the closest chair and dragged it towards them, using one hand to steady himself against the table. He bent his leg and brought his foot up to set on the seat of the chair, opening his body for Jaskier’s fingers.

The man leaned back, Geralt’s cock popping free from his mouth obscenely. “Goodness, if that isn’t an invitation,” Jaskier purred, rubbing his lips across Geralt’s cockhead. He kept one hand around Geralt’s cock, and the other slipped back behind his sack to stroke down the cleft of his ass. Jaskier moved to suck him in once again, and moaned when he felt the slick against his fingers.

It was all Geralt could do not to sink down on them when two teased his hole, rubbing gently over the furled muscle. The heat made relaxing and taking Jaskier’s fingers easier, and the bard didn’t tease him, pushing in with short, wriggling thrusts. The combination of a brilliant, wet mouth and talented fingers had the witcher swallowing soft moans.

He always tried to be quiet in bed; he was afraid that loud exclamations would terrify prostitutes and didn’t want to drown out any beautiful sounds other partners made. Jaskier was gloriously loud, and for once, Geralt wasn’t going to shame him for his volume. He definitely found issue sometimes with the boisterous talking and brazen singing, but crying out in pleasure wasn't something he ever wanted to discourage.

Unfortunately, with his mouth occupied, he was much less noisy, and with how wonderful that mouth felt on Geralt’s prick, the witcher had trouble keeping his own utterances stifled. 

One particularly well-aimed prod from the fingers fucking him knocked a sweeter sound than he was used to from his throat. Geralt felt vaguely embarrassed, but noticed that the noise made Jaskier moan in response. Apparently he wasn’t the only one who liked to listen to a partner’s pleasure. Jaskier chased the noise with another clever twist of his fingers and swallowed the cock in his mouth. 

By the time that Jaskier had three fingers inside him, a fourth teasing his rim, Geralt’s mouth became much more loose. Each thrust wrung a noise from him, most in labored breath and low, pleading groans. Jaskier’s fingers were unerringly accurate, massaging the gland inside of him with each firm push, shoving Geralt’s control further and further off a cliff’s edge.

The witcher tugged gently at the thick brown hair in his grip, a weak attempt to warn him as he began to tip. “Jaskier,” he growled, failing to hide the plaintive note behind it.

With a gasp, Jaskier pulled off of Geralt’s cock, his hand stroking him with quick pulls. He rested the cockhead against the flat of his tongue, opened his mouth, and looked up.

Geralt was powerless against the onslaught, and came with a shuddering groan, painting his spend across Jaskier’s reddened lips and a flushed cheek. The last pulses pooled onto his tongue, and were filthily lapped away and swallowed.

Jaskier leered up at him, face wet for the second time that day with Geralt’s fluids. It was irresistible, and the witcher let his knees fold and brought himself down to the floor, nearly in the surprised bard’s lap.

“Oh,” Jaskier breathed, suddenly crowded by naked man. Geralt caught him by the back of the neck and kept him steady as he leaned in. The urge to kiss Jaskier’s sinful, often foolish, mouth was too strong to resist. Geralt sucked at his lips, consuming the noises of surprise that squeaked from them, then set about licking up the stripe of cum now dripping down the man’s face. 

After paying Jaskier’s mouth in more gentle kisses for its lovely work, Geralt leaned back and swallowed. Jaskier’s face now clean, Geralt enjoyed the completely wrecked look on it.

“Well,” Jaskier said, dazed.

Geralt didn’t bask in it, and instead peered down to the man’s lap. Jaskier was hard, and Geralt wanted to get his mouth on that part of him as well. He shuffled back and reached for Jaskier’s groin, licking his lips. 

“Oh,” the bard said, leaning back as Geralt sunk into his lap. “You don’t have to.” The witcher growled, moving to unlace his trousers. “Okay,” Jaskier squeaked, “you want to, but I’ll be done for a few hours. I’m not going to have your stamina, darling.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Geralt grunted, pulling Jaskier’s cock free of his pants. “You can fuck me with your fingers again.” He forced himself to pause, glancing up at his friend. “Unless you don’t want me to.” Geralt said, letting him go. He was able to stop himself; he wasn't an animal. 

Jaskier hitched his hips. “How could I not fucking want it?” Jaskier whined, settled back on one arm. “Okay. If you're not going to mind me out of commission for a bit. I’m still recovering from last week… oh...” Jaskier stuttered to a half as Geralt leaned down far enough to take him into his mouth, sucking greedily. It had been a while since he’d done it, but the witcher couldn’t stop thinking about returning the pleasure since the day before. Jaskier had a pretty cock, and Geralt wanted to dote on it. 

“Oh, fuck your mouth is so hot,” the bard moaned, his hand already petting through Geralt’s hair, pushing the loose strands off of his brow. Geralt hummed contentedly as Jaskier dragged his nails against his scalp. It seemed that they were both weak to that. 

“Gods, you’re beautiful. Geralt,” Jaskier said, voice sincere and awed. The witcher took him deeper, closed his eyes in concentration. The praise sent a warm flush through his chest. Being laid out on the kitchen floor, in front of a cook fire, Geralt’s body was on full display. He knew Jaskier meant it when he called him handsome, but beautiful was a word for court maidens or perfumed fops. Something like a burly mass of scarred and mutated muscle, stripped of its sanity and bathed in lewdness- that was not a candidate for such a word.

Nonetheless, Jaskier had said it, and Geralt could not sense a lie. Jaskier must be a bit mad with Geralt’s heat as well.

His charming praises stroked down his spine as Geralt worked, encouraging and rewarding him. The practice of pleasuring a cock came back to him rather easily, and Geralt’s confidence grew and Jaskie’s volume increased. His jaw was not even near tired when the bard’s long fingers caressed his cheek. 

“I’m nearly there,” Jaskier whispered, closer to a prayer than an announcement. The sweet sound of his labored breaths made Geralt take him deeper, growling with pleasure as the bard cried out, “oh, Geralt- oh that’s…”

He swallowed immediately when it hit his tongue, drinking Jaskier down as the man had done to him. He never minded the taste of it, unusual and musty but not horrendous. The real appeal was knowing he was taking part of his partners into him, tasting and smelling and consuming them. 

Oftentimes, the taste of them lasted longer than their presence. 

Two hands cupped his face and brought him up. Geralt had enough time to get to his hands and knees before Jaskier began doting on him with sweet, searching kisses. He hummed and let Jaskier coax him up off the floor and set him in the nearby chair.

“One moment,” the bard muttered, fastening his pants and moving to dip his hands into the wash basin. He then grabbed a wooden cup and filled it from a small cask of ale he’d rolled out of the cellar.

“Drink this, then maybe a nap?” Jaskier suggested, handing the cup over and going to check on his abandoned soup pot. The greens were boiling merrily. If he kept them on they would turn soft and then fall apart, making a lumpy, fibrous soup. Jaskier smothered the fire slightly to bring the temperature down, reducing it to a simmer and clapping the iron lid on the pot.

“This will take an hour or two yet, but I planned to bring in the tub from the shed. It’s wooden, but I think the tar inside is still watertight.” The bard smiled at him, giving Geralt’s naked frame a once over. “I’ll pull a bath for you this evening.”

Pulling a bath would take a while- the buckets they had weren’t that large, and there was no pump. Jaskier would have to draw all the water from the well, and that was a bit of labor. Geralt wanted to help, but now that his heat was momentarily satisfied, his body weighed heavily with exhaustion.

A nap was probably in order.

Geralt drug himself to his feet. “Wake me when you need help.”

“Yes, dear witcher,” he said, patting Geralt on the shoulder, then pushing him towards the bedroom. “Get some sleep. I’ll bother you when I need your muscle.”

Geralt grunted and complied.

* * *

He woke to the sound of a tub banging down in the main room, and Jaskier’s loud, surprised cussing. Geralt pulled on his pants and wandered out to find him standing triumphantly over a tub. 

“Here we are! And I only rolled it over my toes once.”

Geralt huffed a laugh and inspected the tub. It was old, but it looked like it would hold water. Jaskier collected the three buckets they had found on the property, and they went to fetch the water.

However, when Geralt stepped just outside the door he stopped, his brain kicking into a state of hyper-alertness. It was the early evening by now, and the shadows were long. Roach was laying in the tall grass, napping. Geralt sniffed the air in quick breaths, eyes scanning the yard. Jaskier noticed.

“Feels a little strange to leave the house, hm?” He said, taking hold of all three buckets and making to the well. “That’s your nesting instincts. It makes you a tad bit paranoid to leave where you’ve settled down.” He set two buckets down and hooked the last on to the line, letting it down into the shaft. “How about I bring them to you and you work on filling and warming it?”

Geralt grumbled but agreed. The instinct was strange and he disliked it, but at least he’d be useful. Being able to do some physical activity was a relief, but casting Igni was unusually difficult. By the time the tub was full they were both sweating; Jaskier from hauling over a dozen buckets to the door and Geralt from trying to hold an Igni long enough to make the water steam.

“Alright, last one,” Jaskier panted, dragging a full bucket in and shutting the door. “Let’s keep this for the wash basins, we have enough for a bath.” He set it down and staggered over to the tub, sitting down hard on the stool he set next to it. Geralt was leaning against the side, blinking wearily at him.

“Well, hop in.” Jaskier knocked the side of the tub and reached for his bag to pull out his soaps. Geralt wanted to argue that Jaskier could get in first, being the less dirty of the two of them, but his back was tight and painful and the heat coming off the water was alluring.

As soon as he settled in, his eyes nearly rolled back in his head in relief. A luxurious dip in hot water was always his weakness.

Jaskier arranged the stool and started in on helping him wash. Geralt let him get his back, nearly purring when he rubbed at his sweat-brined skin, cleaning away the days of stress. After his body was cleaned, the bard pulled his hair out of its hasty tie and washed it. 

The feeling of Jaskier’s hands massaging his scalp, dragging down the back of his neck and gently rinsing away the soap was intoxicating. Geralt was always weak to Jaskier’s personal care, and once he’d allowed it into their relationship, it was impossible to deny himself.

The pleasure of being washed was mutating under the curse of estrus, and Geralt groaned in frustration as he felt his cock stir. He couldn’t have a moment of peace from the damn thing.

“Fuck,” he snarled, gripping the side of the tub, “again?”

Jaskier finished rinsing his hair and moved to the side of the bath. He gave Geralt a rueful smile and rolled his sleeve up further.

“Just ignore it,” Geralt said, glaring at his cock, now hard and flushed under the water. He didn’t think the damn thing went down entirely the whole day, and his ass was producing enough slick to warrant cleaning himself several times over. His heat had a mind of its own.

“No, no. That’ll just make your mood worse.” Jaskier slid his hand into the water, reaching down to the bottom to cup his balls, then pet firmly behind them. “Like last night, stroke yourself, please.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. Something about Jaskier’s voice compelled him to do as he was told. 

The water made movement easy, and Jaskier breached him with a single finger, the stimulus enough to ease the ache. Geralt fisted his cock and leaned back, spreading his legs to make Jaskier’s participation easier. 

“There we are,” the bard said, voice soothing and sweet. Geralt wondered if it was the same voice he used on the quick trysts the man entertained behind the stage. “Relax, darling, we aren’t in a rush.”

The witcher took a deep breath, changed his grip on himself. He was letting the frustration of being in constant arousal wind him tight. He lolled his head back and focused on the sensations: he was warm and clean and taken care of with a full prick and an attentive touch fucking into him. There was nothing to be tense about.

Jaskier’s finger slid deeper. “There we are, that’s good.”

Geralt shuddered and sped up his strokes, feeling the beginning pressure of an orgasm. Jaskier slipped another slender finger alongside, curled them to press right where Geralt wanted it.

The sensation built, but then ebbed; coming close to enough but not quite. Geralt grunted in frustration as he chased it, moving his hand faster. 

He lifted his head from the back of the tub, opening his eyes from when he’d closed them in concentration. His gaze happened to be caught, immediately, by two very intense, gorgeous blue eyes. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier said, low and lovely, “let me see you come.”

It was so easy to obey.

* * *

By the time Geralt got out of the bath and dried, he was deeply tired. Jaskier shoved him towards the bedroom as he yawned.

“Go to bed,” he said, stripping his shirt and working the laces of his pants. “I need a bath. I'll be in in a bit.”

Geralt frowned at the tepid tub. The water was less than ideal. “You going to bathe in that?” He asked. “I just came in there.”

Jaskier laughed and stepped in the tub unceremoniously. “Darling,” he sang, “I have bathed in monster-blood soup after you’ve gotten out of the tub.” It was true. Jaskier always made Geralt go first, for some reason. Oftentimes the man would order a second for himself, but when money was tight, one bath would have to be split between them. “I don’t have the energy to pull more water in here,” Jaskier said, grabbing the soap and lathering it. He ran his palms against his generous chest hair, filling it with suds. “A little cum is not a problem.” Jaskier splashed himself and looked over at Geralt, a mischievous grin pulling his lips. “Plus, I have a feeling you like getting it on me.”

“Mm,” Geralt agreed, turning back to the bedroom with heavy steps. That wasn’t wrong. He wasn’t sure if it was part of his heat or part of him as a person, but the thought of getting his scent and fluids on Jaskier was, for a lack of a better term, a primal need. It slaked some deeper desire in him. Thank the gods Jaskier didn’t mind. 

With the hot water softening the tight muscles that ached in his back, falling into bed was a near euphoric experience. Geralt nestled in immediately, not bothering with any sort of sleep clothing. He’d just need to tear it off in frantic need later. 

The witcher sprawled across the bed, leaving the one candle lit for Jaskier to find his way back by, and fell into sleep effortlessly.

* * *

When he woke it was dark, the candle long put out, and Jaskier’s soft snores puffed air against his shoulder. The man was cuddled up behind him, not oppressively close, but enough to solidify his presence. Geralt blinked into the dark, trying to figure the time. He had no stars to go on, but his body told him it was just past midnight.

Geralt tried not to snarl in frustration; he knew what woke him up. His prick was a hard ache against his hip, and there’s slickness between his thighs. He wasn’t one to complain when hurt, but this strange pain was entirely different from an injury. It burned and bit at him, crawled under his skin and moved his limbs, puppeting him along. It only felt like it was gaining intensity. Soon, he worried that be wouldn’t be able to speak or control himself. Thank whatever gods there were he hadn’t presented as an alpha. He would have had Jaskier chain him in the cellar and block the door. There was no way to ensure the man’s safety in that scenario. Geralt would never have trusted himself.

Instead, he was lucky enough to trust Jaskier, and his impulses as an omega were to bend over rather than chase his partner down and mount them. Still, with his control fuzzy, his strength worried him. He’d very nearly hurt Jaskier the day before. Perhaps he needed to indulge in a more passive role.

Jaskier had been able to guide him, a few times now, with simple commands. He didn’t have the overbearing presence of an alpha, but he did still have his natural confidence. Geralt had taken an order pretty damn well only a few hours ago in the tub, and all the other commands were as simple as sleep, drink, relax- hardly difficult.

He wished his body would follow his own orders and go back to sleep, but he knew it was futile. He needed to relieve himself first. Sighing in annoyance, he closed a hand around his cock, smearing the precum already dripping from him. 

The breaths against his back changed and Jaskier yawned and pushed himself up on an elbow. He waited a moment, listening, then shuffled closer, placing his free hand on Geralt’s hip.

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” the witcher growled. He couldn’t even let his friend have a full night’s sleep without demanding something from him.

Jaskier hummed, sliding his hand down to pet the growing wetness between Geralt’s cheeks. “Shh,” he murmured, slicking up his hand and pulling it back to his own cock, “it’s fine. You’re not bothering me. I think I have one in me.”

Geralt enjoyed listening to the noise of Jaskier pulling himself to hardness, half-looming over him. He stayed on his side, turning his head to seek him out in the dark. He knew the man couldn’t see in the low light, but a witcher could. 

Jaskier reached out in the dark, hand finding Geralt’s thigh and pushing it up towards his chest. He moved to straddle Geralt’s other leg, his cock nudging just behind Geralt’s balls. 

Even though he wasn’t on his belly, the position was vulnerable and open. Geralt pulled his leg up further, and reached down with his other hand to palm his cock. Jaskier mapped him out with his hands, blind in the dark, and fitted the head of his cock over Geralt’s hole.

“Do you want me to stretch you?” He asked, rubbing himself through the slick. Geralt shook his head, then realized Jaskier couldn’t see it.

“No. Just… get in.”

Jaskier sighed and pushed into him, rocking forward from where he sat astride Geralt’s thigh. The penetration wasn’t as deep, but the angle and slight burn was enough to make the witcher’s breath hitch.

Jaskier fucked into him at a leisurely pace, his sleepy body doing its best. “I won’t be long,” he whispered. His fingers flexed against Geralt’s hip and thigh. 

“Don’t need long,” he grunted in return, already working himself into a pleased buzz.

“Good,” Jaskier said, leaning in further and fucking him with slow, full strokes. “Nice and easy, then.” His eyes were closed and Geralt looked his fill. He hadn’t had the chance to watch Jaskier on top of him while he was inside: he’d either been on top or turned away. His broad, masculine chest and tapered waist, the softer definition hiding his body’s strength; Geralt wanted to feel just how strong he was. Jaskier was no warrior, but an active and sometimes rough life made him more than just some court dandy. 

“Oh,” Jaskier muttered, his hips pressing in just a bit deeper as his heart rate picked up, “just like that. You’re lovely.”

Geralt stroked himself faster and brought the other one back to clasp over Jaskier’s on his hip. Jaskier’s breath stuttered and he bit his bottom lip, nearing his edge and waiting for Geralt to come with.

The witcher squeezed the hand under his own. “In me,” he said, thankful Jaskier could not see him. The urge was strong and needy and strange, but he was too tired to fight it. “Come in me.”

Jaskier heaved a soft sob and pressed as deep as he was able, his cock twitching as he came. Geralt swallowed a wounded sound as his body shook in pleasure at the feeling of it, and he fought his own peak until Jaskier began to pull free of him, clamping down on his spend instead of his softening cock. Jaskier’s fingers pressed over Geralt’s hole, feeling him clench and contract as he peaked.

“That’s it,” he whispered, “keep me inside of you.”

Geralt turned his face to the mattress and heaved a shaky breath, the heat ripping through him at the words. The bed bounced as Jaskier collapsed next to him, laying wet, tired kisses on his shoulders and neck. Geralt grounded himself well enough to wipe his hand off, but was too weak to not turn over onto his back and pull the man tight against him. Jaskier nuzzled into him and Geralt guided the bard’s lips up to his own.

Their kiss was slow and lazy, and Jaskier draped himself half over Geralt’s chest, his embrace warm and quieting. The kiss broke gently and the bard shuffled to tuck his head under Geralt’s chin, settling in to sleep using Geralt as his pillow. The witcher tilted his head just enough to smell the still damp hair that brushed his chin and cheek, and let himself smile sleepily in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear there will be more plot in like... well, not the next chapter. That’s also porn. But the chapter after that? We may have some plot with it. Maybe.
> 
> Geralt, stop having depressing thoughts while fucking what is your problem?
> 
> ALSO: thank you for all the nice comments you guys, it’s really helpful. I have a hard time staying motivated to write and this is a MUCH bigger project than I planned, but hearing that people are enjoying it is a huge drive for me. I’m excited to finish this journey with y’all! About 3/4 there!


	6. Overflow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt gets what he needs, not quite what he wants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: breeding kink, infertility mention, fisting 
> 
> Sorry for the delay here is like 9k words of porn to soothe you.

It was unpleasant, waking up alone. Geralt must have become spoiled with a warm body sleeping against him at night, because waking up alone made his mood sour. 

It wasn’t as if Jaskier and he hadn’t slept side by side for years, they certainly had, but Geralt was careful to not become over-familiar with his friend. A handful of times he’d awoken with the man draped across his chest, or crowded against his back, an arm slung over his hip. Geralt even managed to, after a night of heavy drinking, wake with his face in Jaskier’s neck, and Jaskier already awake, gently stroking his back. 

They never addressed it. It just happened and neither of them seemed bothered enough to stop it. Traveling with Jaskier as long as he had, waking up without him near was disappointing.

The problem was made worse by the heat driving him. The need to be close, to touch and to embrace, was undeniably strong. Whatever original desires Geralt had for contact were heightened tenfold. 

Feeling the agitation roar to life, Geralt stalked out of bed, not bothering to get dressed. He gulped down the cup of water left for him, and began to prowl about the house. Jaskier was nowhere to be found- not in the main room or the spare bedroom, not in the kitchen or the cellar. It was clear he had been up and eaten, but he was no longer in the house. 

Geralt growled, fighting back the small tremor of panic that the heat summoned. He wouldn’t devolve into an animalistic fear at being abandoned. He knew he wasn’t. Jaskier was simply out.

He threw the front door open, scanning the yard. Roach was now tied near the well, eating merrily. She gave Geralt a puzzled look, huffing at his obvious tension. 

“It’s fine, Roach,” he grumbled, returning to the house. It didn’t serve well to make her nervous. He prowled back to the bedroom, kicking around discarded clothing, picking up a peacock green doublet and pressing it to his face before he thought of what he was doing.

The familiar smell was comforting, slowing his heartbeat. He was aware that it was cringeworthy, smelling his friend’s clothing, but the heat-riddled part of him purred at the scent. He stood there, Jaskier’s shirt scrunched up in his face, until he calmed enough to feel truly foolish.

Geralt threw the clothing down and went out to the main room again, making for the crates in the corner where the possession had been. He needed to distract himself, and being a nosey shit was distracting. Geralt picked through a box, pulling out candlesticks and ornaments, an ancient fire poker and a random assortment of books.

The books, of course, proved to be the most helpful, and Geralt thumbed through two sizable tomes before pulling a small book with a weak binding out of the pile.

Its cover only had the name ‘Tresley’ on it, but the inside showed it was a collection of older essays titled “Subsex and the Natural Inclinations Thereof”. It read just as pretentious as Geralt thought it would. It was obviously written by an alpha man, as he toted his sex/subsex combination as the pinnacle of human perfection, followed then by the “sculpted grace and delicacy” of omega women.

Geralt rolled his eyes as he thumbed through it, the feeling of general disgust enough to derail his strange anxiety. He stopped a moment at the entry about alpha women, wondering if the author paid them any sort of respect. He didn’t, of course, and called them ‘true harridans with an overbearing presence’- which meant the author was surely terrified of them.

The sexism wasn’t a surprise. Geralt knew what the world thought of those who had “contradicting” sex and subsex traits. He grit his teeth as he turned to the portion dedicated to omega males- not men, mind you- _males_ , the author insisted. Geralt knew what he would find.

- _The omega male, although a bastardization of the very essence of masculinity, is not a useless creature. When no beta or omega women are available in an alpha’s time of need, an omega male may suffice. One must take heed that an omega male is only fertile in the time of their estrus, as their womb lays dormant throughout the year. They are, miraculously, able to sire children as well as be the dam- a trait which they share with the equally contrary alpha female_.- 

Geralt huffed a sarcastic laugh. And what could this alpha man do again? Only one of those things? It sounded like he was more useless than the subsexes he looked down on. 

_-Omega males are often not distinguishable externally from their beta counterparts. Contrary to popular belief, these creatures look like an average man and can go undetected unless scented. This makes tracking unbounded omega males difficult, as a bachelor is less likely to be noticed than a spinster._ -

Geralt felt a sneer pull his lip as he continued reading.

- _It is dangerous, of course, to have such men in the ranks of the army. An unbonded male may send the rest of his company into a frenzy. These males should always be paired off or be kept men during these times._ -

It sounded like it was the ravenous, uncontrollable alphas who were the issue, not the omega in that circumstance. Geralt flipped away from the passage to look for Jaskier’s particular subsex.

- _The beta man and beta woman are unique bridges. If it is to be said the alpha man is the peak of masculinity, and the omega female is the peak of femininity, then the beta subsex is the peak of humanity. These individuals, although fairly unnoticeable outside of the Season, are helpful companions_.-

Well, at least Jaskier was being paid respect. 

_-Beta men and women are able to hormonally bond with any subsex, even their own, and have the ability to sympathetically rut and estrus with a bonded partner. Their intensity is less, and they are not as wanton or as brutish as that which they mirror, but they can fulfill a role gracefully and calmly.-_

Geralt wondered if the author had been partnered with a beta before, because he didn't have the same horrible distaste for them that he did for male omegas or alpha women. 

The rest of the book included sections on appropriate and inappropriate sexual positions- boring, and how to properly court- hilariously outdated.

The worst thing was near the end- “the proper way to keep and rule an omega partner”. Geralt felt the pages wrinkle under his fingertips as he seethed. He knew omega women were treated poorly, hell- he knew most all women were treated poorly, but the way it was outlined in the essay made his skin crawl. It was if an omega was a slave, and that an alpha should be wise to the ways their omega could manipulate them. Instead of treating each other like a lover and a spouse, it was about ownership and breeding. Geralt felt anger well up inside him the more he read.

Jaskier didn’t think like this, surely. He knew his friend well enough to know he would never agree with such disgusting views.

The infuriating nature of the book had successfully distracted him for a long enough time that Jaskier’s return startled him. Geralt was on his feet before the man had opened the door, alert and charged with energy. 

Jaskier shouldered his way in, boots dirty with a dead rabbit- already cleaned, skinned and beheaded- hanging from one hand, and a fresh bucket of water in the other. Before he could think rationally about it, Geralt moved towards him, lips curled back in a snarl, his body alight with arousal, frustration and defensiveness. 

The bard, to his great credit, stood his ground, even when Geralt was nearly in his face.

“Calm down,” he said, voice strong and crisp. “It’s just me. Everything is alright. Relax.”

And like that, the aggression abated, because he was right: it was just Jaskier, and Jaskier was safe. No one new was intruding on his space. Dumbly, Geralt followed Jaskier as he headed to the kitchen.

“I was out to check the snares. Had trouble resetting them,” he explained, laying the carcass on the counter. Jaskier reached for a large wooden bowl up upon the shelf. His shirt rode up in the back, and Geralt reached for the exposed skin.

“Hands to yourself,” Jaskier said, in the same firm tone. Geralt nearly growled, but backed away. He said no. Not only did Geralt- as an honorable man- want to respect that, his omega instincts did as well. He couldn’t find it in him to be angry about it.

“I’m sorry, I need to do this quick,” Jaskier said, taking the bowl and plopping the dead rabbit into it. He then grabbed the steaming pot of water near the hearth Geralt had failed to notice, and carefully poured it over the carcass. It smelled like saltwater. “I need to get this in a brine. I need meat, Geralt. Vegetable mush, boiled oats and old cheese aren’t enough to keep me going, and when your heat breaks you’re going to be starving.” He wiped his hands off on a towel, sighing, and turned to look at him.

Geralt stood still, his teeth grit, his hands at his sides, cock hard and slick trickling down his leg. Ridiculously, he still had the book in his hand. 

Jaskier frowned at him. “Oh Geralt, I’m sorry.” He stepped in closer, reached up to place a gentle hand on his neck. The sensation had Geralt nearly swooning in relief as the strange anxiety he’d suffered all morning broke away. 

“I didn’t mean to take so long,” Jaskier said. He looked down curiously to the book Geralt was crushing in his grip. The bard balked at the title.

“What? Were you reading…” Geralt released his hold as the book was lifted out of his hand. Jaskier looked appalled. 

“Tresley’s essays on subsex?” He huffed, waving it around. “What an utter piece of self-serving rubbish. No wonder you’re so moody.” Jaskier shook the book at him, incensed. “I’ll have you know this printing was paid for by other alpha men in order to better solidify their social standings against men of ‘lesser secondary value’ and the alpha women he butted heads with in University.” 

Geralt blinked at him, trying his best to pay attention. He had been right: Jaskier wasn’t anything like those men. 

“Bunch of self-fellating muckrakers,” the bard continued. “I should do the world a service and burn this… in fact!” Jaskier whipped the book into the kitchen fireplace. Apparently some embers were still alive, because the pages caught and began to burn.

Jaskier scoffed and turned back to Geralt. His face immediately softened as he smiled and wrapped his arms around the witcher’s neck.

“Tresley would choke on his tongue if he saw you,” Jaskier cooed, digging his fingers into tousled white hair. “He thinks his wagging jowls are the peak of masculinity? Hm, I think not.” Jaskier’s gaze traveled across Geralt’s face, caressing it with just a look. “Being a man means not being a coward, being kind and being loyal- I do think he could be well-schooled by you. You have those traits in abundance.”

Geralt couldn’t handle it any longer, and groaned, leaning forth to claim Jaskier’s mouth. His hands grabbed at the bard’s waist, tugging him closer. Jaskier laughed delightedly. 

“Dear witcher, I’m sorry I wasn’t back sooner,” he said as Geralt’s mouth moved to his neck, licking and biting. “I didn’t think it would be this bad. You were doing so well yesterday.”

Geralt grumbled nonsensically against the skin he bit at, gently nipping and sucking. Words were difficult to form. He could think well enough to process his thoughts, but getting them out of his mouth seemed like an impossible task. Jaskier hummed and petted at his bare back, letting Geralt get his hands under his shirt. 

“Poor man,” Jaskier crooned, kissing his temple, “let’s go to bed, then.”

The witcher managed to pull away, relishing the fresh flush of arousal the statement brought forth. He turned to drag Jaskier away to the bedroom, but his eyes fell on the table.

The image of Jaskier fucking Marla over his own interrupted breakfast surfaced like an illusion, and his cock jumped in interest. He’d watched them, watched Jaskier fuck her so expertly, making her shake apart on her own kitchen table.

That. Yes, he wanted that.

Jaskier opened his mouth in surprise as Geralt pressed his hands to the tabletop, testing its stability. Satisfied it wouldn’t end in a heap on the floor, he bent over it, enjoying the cool wood against his sweltering skin.

“Right here?” Jaskier said, voice pitched slightly in incredulity and perhaps no small amount of awe at Geralt laying himself over a table. He looked like a feast, his gorgeous back stretched long across the surface, arms reaching up to grab the far end for support. 

“Looks… good,” he sighed, trailing his fingers down Geralt’s spine, petting down the cleft of his ass. Jaskier hissed as his fingers slid easily in the slick. “Fuck, you’re soaked. I’m so sorry, Geralt. You don’t need to wait any longer, I’ve got you.”

Geralt sighed in appreciation as Jaskier pressed two fingers to him, sinking in with little resistance. He didn’t have the patience for the bard’s careful touch- it was too late for that now. Jaskier spread and wriggled his fingers inside of him, testing the give, and Geralt gave him an entire ten seconds before he began to snarl and shove back onto him.

“I’m sorry, I just want to be careful,” Jaskier said, voice weakening as Geralt continued to egg him on. “Alright, okay,” he acquiesced, pulling his fingers loose to unlace his trousers.

Geralt gripped the edge of the table, breaths coming fast like he was winded. His head was spinning, the ache in him cresting painfully.

“I’m here, I’m here,” Jaskier soothed, the blunt head of his lovely cock pushing past the slick ring of muscle. Geralt made a wounded noise and flexed against the table, bearing the stretch beautifully.

“There we are, darling, oh…”

Jaskier didn’t pause, moving his hips in a steady rhythm, and it was good, it helped. Geralt didn't have the leverage to move back against him, and reminded himself he needed to let Jaskier take control. He was too heat-drugged to be safe, too lust-addled to keep himself from taking too much from Jaskier. 

It didn’t mean he couldn’t make requests.

His voice was slow in forming words, but a rough rasp eventually left him, growled out against the tabletop in panting breaths. 

“Jask- ha-harder.”

Geralt got a gasp in response, then the hands on his hips gripped harder, dug into him painfully and it was perfect. Thank the gods Jaskier kept his boots on, because it helped him gain enough traction to throw himself into his task, rattling the table as his hips smacked the damp curve of Geralt’s ass.

It was just right. He panted against the wood of the table, and he was thankful for its support as his legs began to shake. This was what he needed.

Behind him, Jaskier made a curious noise, and talked through quick breaths. “I think I know- what’s going on,” he said. “You saw us. Marla and I.”

Geralt jerked under him, a small tremor of shame only adding to the pleasure he felt. 

“I heard the door close. You watched us.” Jaskier said, a pleased note in his voice. He threw even more of his weight behind his thrusts. “I can fuck you so much harder than her, and you can take it, can’t you? You’re taking me so well.”

Geralt bucked under him, startled at how proud the words made him, how much more aroused. He was already close, the hard strike of Jaskier’s hips to his ass had him salivating, but he wanted everything Jaskier could give him. He could take everything.

“Fuck,” Geralt snarled, barely a word. He lifted his head and torso off of the wood, the noises ripped from him were stuck between pleading and furious. He grit his teeth, gasped again, trying to talk. “Jaskier, more.”

A firm hand landed heavy on the back of his neck, pressed down hard. Geralt shuddered and went down, cheek set against the table. Jaskier leaned heavily over him, still fucking in perfect time. 

“No Geralt, you stay down and take it.” The grip was as firm as the command, and it did something, shook something loose in Geralt. It wasn’t exactly a wail that escaped his throat, more of a whine than anything, but Jaskier moaned in response, loving it.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he hissed, dragging his fingernails from the nape of Geralt’s neck down his spine. It made the witcher keen and shove back against him, meeting the thrusts with desperation. He couldn’t get a hand under him to touch his cock, what with the edge of the table up against his thighs, but the rough handling set him off in a way that almost made that irrelevant. 

Jaskier wasn’t negligent, however, and kept one hand firm on the small of Geralt’s back as the other groped underneath him. His pace was immaculate, set like a metronome, and Geralt gasped and clenched as the palm of Jaskier’s hand closed over the tip of his neglected cock. 

“I’m close,” Jaskier warned. “Want me to fill you up?” 

The raw want that roared to life inside of Geralt had his whole body tight like a drawn bowstring. He wanted it. He needed to be filled. Not only did his damned heat demand it, but he wanted to feel Jaskier enjoying his body. He wanted to know he felt as good as Jaskier was making him feel.

“Yes,” he said, barely able to make the word at all though the constant low groans he panted against the wood.

Geralt shivered as Jaskier made a sound behind him, low and strong and so very pleased with him. Jaskier leaned over him, hot and dense and perfect. “Want me to breed you?”

Something about that word, that idea sent Geralt over. He shouted as he came, his body shaking violently. Jaskier cursed and pushed deep, following him with a sob. Geralt fought the urge to clamp down: he wanted every drop Jaskier had to give him, and the pulse of the cock inside him was intoxicating. He felt the warm wet rush as he came, holding their hips together.

Too soon, Jaskier withdrew, Geralt’s body beginning to tighten on impulse. He tried not to mourn the loss, but was surprised when he felt clever fingers scoop up any fluid that dribbled out and push it firmly back inside.

Jaskier laid heavily against his back, more grounding than restrictive, dragging his teeth over scarred skin, his fingers plugging Geralt obscenely.

“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he purred, licking sweat-slick skin. Geralt would have argued with him if he wasn’t so completely blissed. The compliment made him close his eyes tight in embarrassment, but that only allowed him to better notice the fingers holding the cum inside of him. 

Jaskier continued, voice low and hazy in pleasure. “Keep it in, darling. I want you walking around with me inside you. I love the idea of studding you.” Geralt clenched at that, and Jaskier moaned against his skin as he twitched around his fingers.

Geralt was too relaxed to be ashamed at how filthy it sounded- not to mention impossible. It wouldn’t work, breeding him. Omega or not, Geralt’s body could never accomplish such a thing, and Jaskier was not looking to make any bastards. Still, the heat -muddled part of his brain responded to the idea needily, clenching tight to keep the seed inside, aching to have more. It was a crude fantasy, but it had pushed him over into orgasm, so he indulged in it. Besides, from how fervently he was licking and biting at Geralt’s back and shoulders, Jaskier obviously liked the idea as well. He wondered how Jaskier would react to being asked to breed him? Lust curled lazily in his belly at the thought.

He felt like he could fall asleep on the table, sprawled and naked- his hips and hole nearly sore from use, but he would regret that. Geralt drifted for a few minutes, feeling the constant burn of arousal slowly chill, leaving his mind clear for the first time that day. He propped himself up on the table, loosening Jaskier’s hold on him.

“Tired,” he grunted, shaking his head. His hair was everywhere. He really needed to tie it back.

“Yes, yes,” Jaskier said, peeling off of Geralt, both of them sticking together with sweat. “Get to bed. You’ve been on edge all morning. You deserve a rest.”

Geralt enjoyed the pleasant ache when he stood, even liking the strange weakness in his legs. He hadn’t had a fuck that in decades, and with the added craving that his strange hormones gave him he was drunk with satisfaction. 

Geralt blamed the fog of pleasure for his next action. He reached out to Jaskier, pulling the bard up against his naked chest. Jaskier squeaked as Geralt kissed him, deep and slow. He was still mostly dressed, with only his pants open and shirt untucked. It was a high contrast to Geralt’s shameless nudity. He loved it, wanted to rub his hands over Jaskier’s sweat-damp shirt and through his tousled hair.

Jaskier relaxed into the kiss, arms loose around Geralt’s waist, mouth pliant. He indulged the affection for only a brief minute before pushing the witcher away gently, dislodging his petting hands.

“Come on, go take a nap. I’ve got food to make.”

Geralt grumbled but obeyed, taking the dismissal for what it was. Jaskier needed to take care of himself, and he was getting in the way. With his mind a little more clear and heat momentarily satisfied, he needed to give some space. He was demanding enough already, and Jaskier had given him more than what was required. Geralt needed to reign in the impulses his post-orgasmic brain gave him. He didn’t need to be coddled after sex like some young maiden.

Geralt trudged into the bedroom, not bothering to clean himself up before flopping onto the bed. He pulled a blanket over his head, hiding from the midday sunlight leaking in through the shutters. 

Hidden away, Geralt frowned into the bedding. He needed to relax and sleep, as Jaskier had asked him to. His body was tired and stressed, but his mind was a mess. 

He closed his eyes and leveled his breathing, trying to slip into meditation and eventually, sleep. The hormones flooding his system were running his mind wild, and they stirred dormant emotions he’d thought had been burnt out of him. Perhaps this was the closest someone like him would get to a regular person’s feelings. It wasn’t exactly pleasant.

Geralt relied on old meditation techniques to relax: counting breaths, visualizing an empty and silent feild, picturing a constant, gentle steam of water pooling in front of him.

It took longer than usual to quiet his mind.

* * *

Of course, getting brutally fucked on top of a table gave Geralt a bit of a back ache. He woke to a sharp pain and the smell of stewed rabbit. Jaskier must have made his meal and eaten well already, because he could hear the man singing cheerfully from the main room.

Geralt attempted to sit up to seek him out, but his back was not keen on the idea and stayed rod-straight, stiff and awful. The witcher groaned in frustration, struggling to roll over. It was ridiculous, having all of his muscles locked up too tight to even get out of a bed.

He heard more than saw Jaskier dance into the room, his voice wafting around merrily. There was a shuffling and then the bed shifted as the man jumped onto it. Geralt grunted at him.

“I’m just guessing here,” Jaskier said, fingers already tickling down Geralt’s spine, “but going by how flexed and knotted I can see your back is, you may be in need of a massage.”

“Yeah,” Geralt muttered into the bedsheets, annoyed. It was another thing he needed from Jaskier. “Do you mind?”

Jaskier scoffed, opening up a bottle of oil he’d grabbed on the way. “Heavens no, why would I offer if I minded at all?”

 _Because you’re that kind of person_ , Geralt thought. That was one of the many things he liked about the man. Jaskier, for all his bluster and bitching, enjoyed helping others, even if it was free of charge. Geralt often got scolded for his own acts of charity, but Jaskier was just as guilty. The witcher had no idea how many times he had seen Jaskier buy a child on the street a bit of fruit from a merchant, sing to calm a frightened family, or dive in to assist an injured bystander. When caught, he either pretended it hadn’t happened, or preened himself like a cock- trying to make the action seem less honorable than it was.

Geralt saw through that easily enough.

Jaskier gave his love and affection freely and without end, that was who he was. That’s what his music was about as well. Early in their friendship, Geralt thought that being a bard was all about Jaskier feeding his own ego, and certainly that was part of it- but the hidden motive was much more graceful. Jaskier wanted to make people happy. He wanted to bring people something beautiful or funny or kind. He wanted to brighten their lives. 

Geralt was one of those people Jaskier gave to. He harvested undeserving praise from his friend daily, not even knowing how to properly process it. He dismissed and teased and deflected, but he wanted the camaraderie and the confidence Jaskier bestowed on him. Geralt hoarded the attention like a dragon, and still he needed more, and still Jaskier gave it to him. 

Geralt was glad he was lying facedown; the scowl on his face would be enough to make Jaskier stop what he was doing. He needed to focus on the sensation of Jaskier’s fingers on his skin, on the persistent and effective way he loosened the painful muscles in his back. Jaskier was helping him, and he should be grateful. He could have left Geralt here by himself, alone and aggressive and desperate.

Jaskier told him to think of it as if caring for the sick, the same way Geralt had time and again. The same as stitching a wound. He was his friend, his comrade- and Jaskier was so full of compassion and lust, it was easy for him to fall into the role of stud and heat companion.

He was his friend. He was his whore.

He wasn’t a lover. 

And if he just so happened to fuck Geralt again once he was nice and slick and boneless under him, whispering kindness into his skin, well then that was just a professional giving wonderful service.

Geralt was grateful for that.

* * *

He hadn’t slept as long as he had hoped. The stew was complete, but Jaskier had yet to partake, and after he helped clean him, Jaskier excused himself to the kitchen again.

It wasn’t evening yet, barely the late afternoon. Geralt got up and stalked around the house, trying to busy himself before he slipped into another bout of horny madness. His mood was ill, and that was more the fault of his overthinking than his heat. The aggression was a low simmer, barely placated by a second orgasm for the day. He wished he felt confident enough to with his swords and had a dummy to practice on. That would mean, unfortunately, that he needed to leave the house. 

Geralt stood at the open door for several long minutes, gulping deep breaths of fresh air. It was cloudy and threatening rain. Roach was laying just outside the stables, relaxed and drowsy. The sight of her pulled the smallest smile to his lips.

Eventually, his restlessness pulled him away. He went back to picking through the crates he had been raiding that morning. The one crate they had found the haunting in was entirely made up of clothing. Since his own loose pants and smalls were in a state of ruin until laundry, Geralt fished through for replacements. He found a few ridiculously patterned braies that were bordering on too tight for him, (Geralt was built in… a certain way. Which meant he had a bit larger backside than the average man.) and a pair of loose pants that were short in the shins. 

They would do for replacements in the short term, and Geralt tied the drawstring of the pants to keep them from slipping before rummaging further.

“I cannot believe I am saying this, but those are remarkably unflattering on you,” Jaskier said, coming in from the kitchen. He smelled of rabbit meat and satisfaction. 

Geralt shrugged, picking up a very horrible looking hat with an awkwardly bent brim. Jaskier slid up next to him just in time for Geralt to deposit it on his head.

“Come now, don’t drag me down with you,” he complained, sweeping the hat off. Geralt snorted and moved on to another crate.

“The client is going to come back and be so damn confused,” Jaskier said, tossing the less useful clothing back into the one crate and closing it. “Should we blame it all on the ghost?”

“Got to tidy up before we go,” he replied, inspecting a half-filled notebook before moving on. It would be a hard sell, but they would be long gone by the time the owner reclaimed the property come fall. “Blame most of it on the ghost.”

Jaskier nodded, watching Geralt carefully. The witcher shot him a brief questioning look.

“How are you feeling, Geralt?”

There was a lot he could say to that- but none of it was relevant. Anyway, Jaskier was asking about the heat, nothing more.

“Fine,” he said, turning back to the books. There was one about Skellige’s history that looked worth the read, and he picked it up. “Shouldn’t need you for a few hours yet.”

“Ah,’’ Jaskier said. “Okay, then.”

Geralt went over to the good chair, throwing himself down on it. Jaskier stood behind it, and Geralt could almost hear the bard fretting aloud.

Geralt sighed. “It’s okay, Jaskier.”

“If I can…” the man stopped, seemingly considering his words carefully, “-if there is anything you need, Geralt- anything I can help with, please tell me.” He’d moved around to the side of the chair, made an aborted movement to touch, then withdrew. “I don’t want to leave you unsatisfied.”

Geralt fought the small sneer that threatened to form, knowing it would make everything worse. Jaskier was so good reading him by now that Geralt could barely get away with anything. He opened the book, pretending to be immediately interested. 

“I’ll come to you when I need you,” he muttered, not liking how that made Jaskier frown harder. He wanted so badly to reach out for his friend, to pull him close and yield to the needs his heat was forcing on him. He wanted to hold Jaskier, but it was too dangerous of an indulgence. 

The moment of silence between them ended with Jaskier briskly walking away, heading to the bedroom. Geralt stayed on the chair and read, trying his best to hold on to his sanity for as long as he could before his body forced him back into bed with his best friend, and all the unwelcome emotions that came along with it.

* * *

The first two hours were easy, because the book was actually interesting and his body was not rankled enough to interrupt him. He’d always been a bit of a bookworm, Eskel too. Most winters he combed through several volumes in the library, and added some new finds to his personal collection. His mind was engaged enough to ignore his body. 

Come the third hour he hit a bit of a bump, and that was mainly Jaskier’s fault. The bard had been singing about the house, piling all the laundry in the main room to start a wash in the empty bathtub. The sound was similar to a heartbeat by now- nearly unnoticeable, but it was his flurry of movement that distracted Geralt. 

Jaskier liked to dance and he wasn't ashamed of it. He hopped and shimmied from table to table throughout his performances, filled with the energy of the crowd. Apparently he was full of energy now, and danced about, piling dirty clothes and gathering supplies for the laundry.

It was only a minor annoyance until he swung about to Geralt and set a goblet of water on his knee.

“Drink up,” he sang before swanning away. 

Geralt did as he was told, but couldn’t help but drag a deep, ragged breath at the smell of him. Jaskier was sweating, having just hauled in new buckets for the laundry, and the scent of him was musty and rich. It kicked the heat-soaked part of his brain into a flurry, and he bit down a piteous noise as Jaskier left the room. 

It was only a brief moment, but Geralt could feel his prick harden, and the uncomfortable slickness at the seat of his pants made him shift in the chair. No longer dormant and waiting, his heat kicked up a fuss inside of him, urging him to chase the other man down.

He would wait. Jaskier was busy with chores Geralt should also be helping with. He knew that if he did help he would end up interrupting them for sex. 

By the fourth hour, evening was setting in and Jaskier was over halfway through a mess of laundry, scrubbing and wringing everything out, trying to find places to hang the garments to dry. He was singing and muttering to himself in turns, ignoring Geralt’s intermittent stares.

Jaskier had thrown his own shirt in the wash, and he was bare chested, not even bothering with a chemise. Geralt had always found Jaskier’s body rather pleasant. He had a pretty face and a remarkably masculine body. The contrast was appealing. Geralt remembered the wonderful swell of Jaskier’s chest under his hands as he rode him, loving the softness and muscle and the rasp of hair under his palms. He thought of the strength of the hand on the back of his neck, holding him down as he got fucked. 

Geralt bit at his cheek and tried to read, but the words were holding less meaning as his mind wandered. He could think well enough, perhaps a bit slow and fluid, like a drunkard- but he knew if he tried to speak it would be nonsensical. 

Thankfully, Jaskier finished up the washing and left to put Roach to bed, his scent wafting by Geralt once more. The witcher tasted blood as he cut his cheek, moving on to worrying his bottom lip. He was only staring at the book now, unable to parse the words.

He lasted another hour and a half from sheer force of will, and from the fact that Jaskier put on a fresh shirt and left for the kitchen. By the time the bard wandered through the main room again, Geralt had dropped the book, and was sitting as still as stone, lip split by his teeth, face pinched and very much soaked with slick and precum. 

He knew he stank with it, because Jaskier stopped abruptly and turned, huffing deep breaths through his nose. Geralt screwed his eyes shut, but his body lit up as Jaskier neared, sensing a partner to help ease his aches. A slender hand gently touched his brow, and Geralt swallowed the pleading whine he loosed in response.

“Oh, Geralt,” Jaskier’s voice was soft and deep, a gentle coaxing, the same way one spoke to a wounded animal. “Why didn’t you come to me?”

He knew he couldn’t speak, but he opened his mouth regardless, panting small, thin growls in his frustration. He was on fire. Dizzy and sick and aching, and he hated it so much.

Jaskier leaned down and buried his face in Geralt’s neck, lips and tongue pressing to his pulse. This close it was impossible not to smell each other- not to notice the strong musk of arousal on Jaskier, the answering sweet scent of cedar that was Geralt’s. 

Jaskier dragged his teeth against Geralt’s skin and moaned lowly. “Fuck,” he cursed, already sounding wrecked, “come on. Let me take care of you.”

The last part of Geralt’s resolve withstood the onslaught, pushing back against the pull. He stayed seated, body shaking. He wanted Jaskier’s help, his comfort, his skill and his generosity. He wanted all that- but he wanted too much, and it ached more to be left nearly fulfilled.

Jaskier pulled away from him, frowning. He cupped Geralt’s face with both hands, tilted it up towards him. He looked concerned, and under that, just as determined.

“Stop it,” he said, swiping a thumb against Geralt’s mouth to clean away the blood from his bitten lip. “You’re my responsibility, Geralt. Mine to take care of.” Jaskier’s fingers twitched against his jawline, and Geralt swore he heard a growl echoing in the bard’s chest. “Get up.”

Obeying felt good, it felt like dipping into a cool stream, like the first gulp of good ale. Geralt nodded shakily and stood, letting Jaskier crowd him like a sheepdog, herding him to the bedroom. 

When Geralt paused in the doorway Jaskier even shoved him, forcing him forward. He grunted and allowed it- liked the strange aggression and how it quieted him. He didn’t have to control anything about this, he just needed to let Jaskier take care of him. He needed to take what he was given.

Geralt let Jaskier strip him, landing quick, sharp bites to his shoulders as he wrapped his arms around to untie his pants. He let himself be pushed onto the bed and laid there submissively as Jaskier shucked his own clothing off, hurried.

Jaskier was rapidly becoming hard, his cock swelling beautifully. Geralt reached for it as the bard climbed onto the bed next to him, but his hands were pushed away.

“Wait,” Jaskier said, voice tight. He winced and withdrew to sit at the far end of the bed. Blue eyes closed as he drew deep breaths, flexing his hands against his thighs.

It looked as though he was working to calm himself. Geralt lay back, confused. Had his stubbornness angered his friend? Had he insulted him? Jaskier was still for a moment more, then shook his head hard before opening his eyes. His vision looked sharper, and the snarl on his lips disappeared.

“Sorry,” he said, his voice once again calm and charming. “I’m tired right now. I don’t think I am going to fuck you.”

The flip in mood was disorienting and Geralt opened his mouth to protest, but Jaskier waved it off and continued. “I’m not going to leave you- I want to try something else.” He slid closer, bringing his hand to Geralt’s knee. 

“Sometimes the needs during heat are about satisfying certain drives,” Jaskier said, smiling reassuringly. “Based on this morning, I think I know how to quiet it down for you, if you’re willing.”

Geralt nodded briskly. Thinking of that morning made his hips twitch. Whatever Jaskier had planned, he was eager to have it. He moved to turn over onto his belly but Jaskier stopped him.

“On your back this time.” The smile was now less reassuring and more predatory. “I’m giving you something bigger than my cock. I need to be able to read your expressions so you don’t get hurt.”

Oh. Geralt remembered their conversation before this whole thing started, about Jaskier offering his hand to fill him. It had been daunting, but incredibly arousing. He didn’t know what he was in for, but the need to have something inside of him was driving him crazy. Jaskier waited patiently, eyebrows raised, for his reaction.

Geralt answered him by laying flat on his back and spreading his legs.

Jaskier preened in satisfaction, slipping off the bed to grab a towel and a pot of salve. It was thicker than the oil he carried, but still slick with a light odor. He tucked the towel under Geralt’s ass and nestled in between his thighs, eyes shining.

“I’ll admit,” he said, opening the pot and scooping up the salve, “this is one of my very favorite things, and I dearly hoped you would agree to it.” Geralt grunted and threw his arm over his face. Something about being laid on his back, spread open, was embarrassing and painfully arousing. Jaskier tutted and stroked his cock lightly.

“I told you, I need to see your face. Your voice isn’t reliable right now. Arm down, Geralt.” 

He listened, bringing his hands down to grab at the sheets and glaring. 

“Thank you.”

A slick finger breached him easily, followed immediately by another. “Your body wants a knot- that’s why you’ve been clamping so tight and trying to keep me inside.” The fingers wriggled and retreated. Jaskier held his whole hand up and waved cheekily. “I’m going to fill you up with this instead. Would you like that?”

He wanted to be irritated by Jaskier’s change of tone- how he went from aggressive to playful and tugged Geralt along with him, but the idea of getting filled like that- it was too appealing. He swallowed hard, focusing on forming a single syllable.

“Yeah,” he exhaled sharply, pulling his legs up and bending his knees. Jaskier purred between them, and the two fingers were back, fucking into him with confidence. The bard kissed at the skin on the inside of his knees and scissored the digits inside of him. 

“You’re so hot inside,” he said, his other hand coming up to stroke Geralt’s weeping cock. “And so fucked out you can take these easily.”

He withdrew long enough to braid three fingers together, then twisted them back inside. Geralt twitched his hips down onto them, the stretch finally noticeable. Jaskier licked his lips, watching his fingers plunder Geralt’s body. Soon, they were moving more freely, testing the clench around them. 

“Are you ready for more?” Jaskier asked, finally peeling his eyes away from Geralt’s hole to look at his face. 

Geralt nodded again, drawing a deep breath. The stretch was minuscule at first, with the smallest finger being added, but once Jaskier had sunk in to the third knuckle, the change was apparent. It pushed a gasp out of him.

“There you are, that’s four,” Jaskier said, sounding a little breathless himself. Geralt groaned as he turned his wrist, the pad of Jaskier’s thumb rubbing the rim of his hole. 

“My thumb is next.” Jaskier didn’t move to add it, gently twisting his wrist again and again, pushing his knuckles against his hole, the stretch enough to make Geralt keen. “You’re doing beautifully. Let’s take our time,” he soothed, gathering more salve with his free hand and slathering it against his knuckles to ease their passage.

It shouldn’t have been this arousing, being stretched this far, his ass aching around the intrusion- but Jaskier’s voice was warm and encouraging, and his slick palm rubbed Geralt’s cock, mixing in friction against the sting. Jaskier turned his hand, wriggled his fingers again and Geralt clenched down on him.

“Sorry, I’m just excited.” Jaskier smiled sheepishly, moving back to gently pressing and pulling, fucking him with shallow thrusts. “Relax for me, darling. We’re almost there.”

Geralt breathed deep, blinking up at the ceiling. He felt his ears flush at the affectation. Jaskier called everyone darling, but Geralt didn’t often hear that with four fingers in his ass. Still, being complimented and crooned at had always been a weakness of his, and it worked well at helping his body stretch around Jaskier’s hand.

“I think you’re ready,” Jaskier said, leaning down to kiss at the inner skin of Geralt’s thighs. “One last push. Deep breath, love.” Oh, that was new- that word rippled up his spine, warm and silky. Geralt shuttered and pulled in a great breath. Jaskier hummed encouragingly. “Bear down on my hand as you breathe out.” Geralt obeyed, and the pressure was intense and uncomfortable, but it was also brief- and then…

“Oh,” Jaskier groaned in awe, “oh, you beautiful boy- you did it.”

He’d never been anywhere near this full before. Jaskier’s slender wrist was a relief after the girth he’d taken, and once the tight band of muscle was past, the pain was null. 

“Breathe for me,” Jaskier said. He moved his fingers inside of Geralt, making the witcher twitch and moan. “How does it feel?” He asked, voice heavy with lust. “Do you feel full?”

The bulk of the hand inside of him pressed hard against his prostate, sending shocks of pleasure through his hips. He hadn’t even made a fist inside of him, yet- and he still felt huge.

Jaskier stroked his cock, then reached to pull up Geralt’s hand. “Touch yourself while I fuck you?” He asked, sounding fucked out, himself. Geralt looked down at him, and bit back a moan. Jaskier’s pupils were blown wide and he’d bitten his lips red. His face was lax and dazed as he stared down at where his hand disappeared into Geralt’s body.

Experimentally, Geralt clenched around him. Jaskier made a noise like he’d been punched in the gut, his eyelids fluttering. He finally looked away to make eye contact, and Geralt felt his cock twitch as the lust-fogged gaze met his own.

“I’m going to fuck you now,” he whispered, wrist rocking inside Geralt, pushing hard on his prostate. “It’s going to be harder than you’ve ever been fucked.” He wasn’t asking, he was telling. Geralt felt his breathing pick up and his legs fell even further apart, as if he could open himself any more than he already was.

The first thrust was slow and short, but it was still so much. Jaskier felt huge and long inside of him, but it wasn’t too much. It felt alien, but good- and his heat screamed in delight at the feeling of it. Fuck, it was filling right were he ached to be filled, right where his body demanded it.

The movements grew steadily faster, only slightly deeper, not straying too far from his prostate. Each time the thrust shallowed out, the knotted bulk of his thumb and knuckles bumped into the spot, pushing a sound out of Geralt’s throat. He wanted to growl out words, tell Jaskier yes and more and please- but he was unable to form the syllables.

Jaskier was having no such issues. “You’re taking me so well.” Geralt watched the flex of Jaskier’s bicep and chest as he fucked his hand into him. “You’re so perfect,” he said, biting at his own lips and moving his attention back and forth from where he was buried to Geralt’s face. He thrust deeper, held it there and Geralt gasped like he was surfacing for air. 

“You like that?” Jaskier growled, repeating the motion, then shallowing his movements to better rub against Geralt’s prostate. “You’ve never had something so big inside of you- and just wait,” he said, dark and pleased and vaguely threatening. “I’m going to make you scream.”

Any other time Geralt would scoff at a statement like that, but as full and wrecked as he already was- it made him want to beg for more. Jaskier’s free hand came down to settle low on his belly, right above where Geralt stroked his cock. He pushed down and made good on his promise. The added pressure forced a shout from the witcher’s throat. He felt huge, unlike anything he’d ever experienced. His cock dribbled precum onto Jaskier’s hand, as if it’d been squeezed out of him.

“You going to come for me?” Jaskier asked, breathless. He was sweating hard, mouth open as he panted. Geralt jerked himself harder, wanting to obey. “I want to see you come. You’re so beautiful like this, Geralt. Please.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt choked around his name, back bowing as it hit him. The noises that followed were barely human at all, and Geralt shook apart, eyes rolling as he came. His body clamped down against Jaskier’s wrist and Jaskier moaned, as if it was his cock being clenched tight. 

The hand inside moved then, and grew impossibly bigger as Jaskier curled his fingers in and made a fist. He pulled at Geralt’s tightened hole, made him feel the bulk of it as it pressed hard up against his sensitive prostate. 

“Oh,” Geralt shouted, his whole body jerking, “fuck!”

“That’s it,” Jaskier purred, sex-drunk and pleased. “You’re taking my knot now, you beautiful thing.” Geralt’s legs shook as he rocked the fist inside of him, not just back and forth, but up and down, massaging his prostate hard. Jaskier leaned down to drag his teeth over Geralt’s shaking thighs. “It’s huge, isn't it? The biggest thing you’ve ever had.” Geralt nodded, as if an answer was expected of him. It was so hard to look down and see Jaskier’s face. He looked so wrecked, so proud of him. It was so good. “You’re going to come again on my knot, darling. Just like this.” 

The fist inside of him moved strong and steady, milking him and pulling gently at the tight clench of his body. Geralt writhed, impaled and fucked-out, too sensitive and yet unable to get away. His hips jerked and his cock was still hard against his belly, too tender to even touch. He had no control over the orgasm that surged up in the wake of the first, so much bigger, like a crashing wave, but Jaskier had him. He could let go.

It hit so hard it nearly hurt, his cock jerking dry and his body jolting. His vision grayed out as he sobbed desperate breaths- he was unaware he’d been holding them- and he was dizzy enough to faint as the feeling sent its last ripples through him.

He came to in a short while, perhaps a few seconds, to Jaskier licking the cum off of his belly, sighing happily as he did it, as if Geralt was a delicacy.

“You did so good, my dearest,” he muttered between licks, “my gorgeous witcher. You were perfect.” Geralt absorbed the praise like a cat in the sun, too drugged to be embarrassed. 

The hand inside of him pulled gently at his rim.

“Relax for me, help push me out.”

His body was near boneless, and releasing his hold on Jaskier’s hand was easier than taking it. The sound of it slipping from him was obscene and wet, and Jaskier moaned against his belly. His freed fingers teased the rim of Geralt’s used hole, making him whimper pathetically at the sensation.

“So filthy for me. Oh fuck, I love it.” Jaskier pushed himself up frantically, looking between Geralt’s legs. His hard cock brushed against Geralt’s hole, and the witcher jolted and whined again. He wanted to beg for it, wanted it in him. He wondered if it would hurt, to be fucked after this, or if the sensitivity would be painful in just the right way.

Jaskier didn’t move to penetrate him, and instead stroked himself quickly using the hand that he’d just removed from Geralt’s body. The witcher shivered at how strange and hot that was, Jaskier pulling himself off using the mix of Geralt’s slick and lube, hand hot from being held inside of him. Jaskier apparently thought so as well, because he came with a cry, cockhead pressed against him, his seed smearing between his cheeks. 

They both laid there, chests heaving, and struggled to recover. Jaskier looked ruined, and Geralt was sure he looked worse. If he could find the strength to sit up and wrap his arms around him, he would. For a moment he thought Jaskier would nestle down on him, but once the bard’s heart began to slow he moved away, slipping off the bed. 

He stumbled over to the wash bin, soaking a small rag and wandering back to clean. Geralt hissed at the cold touch to his ass, the cloth rough against his aching skin. Jaskier muttered an apology, and finished up. He clumsily grabbed a blanket and tossed it over Geralt before wandering back to wash his hands.

Sleep pulled heavily at Geralt, but alongside it came the need, again. He wanted to hold Jaskier against his chest, nuzzle into his hair. The urge was almost stronger now- a need for comfort after he had been ‘knotted’- the mating impulse telling him he needed to keep his partner near him.

He closed his eyes, swallowed deep breaths. Jaskier would come to bed soon enough, and he could at least quell the desire to have him close.

It took a few minutes, but Jaskier put out the candles and wandered over, slipping onto the opposite side of the bed. The mattress wasn’t that wide, and if they both laid on their backs, their arms would touch. Unable to stop himself, Geralt blearily reached out and Jaskier caught his hand, giving it a squeeze.

“Goodnight, Geralt,” he said, rough and tired and near. Geralt hummed in return, pleased with the warm hand in his.

But Jaskier released him too soon, shuffled and rolled away. 

Geralt turned his head on the pillow, blinking over at the man across the bed, his broad back turned towards him. They rarely slept back to back- and certainly not the last few nights. The witcher turned to stare at the ceiling, listening as his friend’s heartbeat slowed and his breaths came deeper and deeper. He tried to soothe himself with the familiar song.

Sleep was, unfortunately, a long time coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay on this- my life kind of fell apart in the middle of writing (I didn’t get my life back together but I did finish the chapter so thats something) 
> 
> If you feel like leaving me love in the comments, know I adore you, too.
> 
> Shout out to EyesofShinigami for help with the dirty talk. You nasty. ;)
> 
> Next chapter should be the end of it.


	7. To Tell the Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things change in the most awkward of ways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, this is the end.

The next day Geralt woke when Jaskier did, the both of them sluggish with absolutely draconic breath. Jaskier laughed as Geralt winced at the smell, blowing at him cheekily until Geralt hit him with a pillow.

“I’ll brush my teeth and search for some mint when I check the snares,” Jaskier said, amused. Geralt rolled out of bed, and was surprised to find that he wasn’t in dire need of relief. Jaskier gave a questioning glance to his groin, but the witcher waved him off.

“Fine for now,” he said, pulling on one of the spare pairs of braies he’d scavenged. There was still a low simmer in his body, just enough to agitate him, but he was fine.

Jaskier nodded. “Should be coming to a close, fourth day and all.” He pulled on his trousers and a chemise, but chose a rather plain shirt over it. The forest wasn't kind to nice things, and if Jaskier was out to forage, he would probably be getting a little dirty. “Here’s hoping there’s more game in the snares. You’re going to be hungry and I know what your normal meals look like.”

He couldn’t argue with that. His head did seem clearer, and his body ached less- at least in the sense of the heat. His ass was certainly a bit more tender than he expected. Jaskier leered at him as Geralt gasped when he sat on the edge of the bed. Geralt threw his boot at him.

It was the first day in many that he even had the urge to get dressed. Boots and a shirt made him feel somewhat normal. Perhaps he could actually be useful at some point. He may be able to sort through his bag, see what potions were running low- although he knew he wouldn’t find much to do. The down time at Marla’s place allowed for a lot of alchemy and maintenance work. He also doubted Jaskier would let him brew potions next to food in the kitchen.

Jaskier gathered what he needed and headed out to the snares. Geralt stood at the front door, contemplating. He didn’t feel the strange anxiety as strongly this morning, so he stepped outside. 

Roach stuck her head from the stable and nickered at him in greeting. It would be easy enough to cross the yard to let her out. The first few steps were fine, but by the time he reached the well, the hairs on the back of his neck prickled in warning. 

It was ridiculous to be on alert. The yard was open, and there were no unfamiliar heartbeats in the area. Geralt couldn't sense anyone other than he and Roach. Even Jaskier was out of witcher earshot by now. He pushed on, ignoring the impulse to turn back. 

Roach nosed him enthusiastically when he was close enough, not having been near him for a few days. He didn’t normally separate from her for long, and he was certain that she had smelled the changes in his hormones. Her large, inky eyes observed him carefully, and she lipped at his fingers. Geralt chuckled and blew gently into her nose, an equine sign of affection. She chuffed and snorted, then head-butted him again.

“I’ll let you out,” he said, unhooking the long tether Jaskier’d been using. He tied it loosely about her neck and opened the gate.

Walking with Roach seemed to abate some of the tension. His body was insisting that he was in danger being so far from where he nested, but Geralt knew it was ridiculous. Roach pulled him over to a new grazing spot by the privy shed, and Geralt tied her lead to a tree there. She would have plenty to eat. He returned to the stable to check the trough- she had enough water to last her through tomorrow.

Geralt didn’t like being useless. Even in the slowest winter days in Kaer Morhen had small tasks and chores. So far the most useful he was the past few days was as a cock warmer. 

Jaskier had gone out to the snares, so he would probably come back with game. Geralt could easily clean and butcher the catch when he returned, but he could perhaps start a brine for the meat now. 

There was an empty bucket by the well, and that was an easy enough task. Geralt pulled a bucket and unhooked the handle from the rope. He stomped back inside, annoyed at the feeling of relief that washed over him when he returned to the house. 

Igni came easier now, and Geralt was amused by the pile of ashes that had been the essay book Jaskier tossed in the flames. There was a clean copper kettle and Geralt filled it, setting it into the kitchen fire. He grabbed the brick of salt and ground some into a larger bowl. Hopefully there would be enough meat to fill it.

He shuffled around the kitchen, taking stock of what was there. It was rather lean, even in the larder. Jaskier had drunk the wine, but the small cask of weak ale was still mostly full. Geralt drank a mug as he waited for the water to boil. 

His cup was empty by the time it boiled and Geralt tipped the steaming water into the bowl, dissolving the salt. Unless Jaskier caught some especially young rabbits, they would need to soak in the brine for a few hours to tenderize. Geralt didn’t have a problem with tough meat, but since Jaskier was a bit more delicate, he’d learned to appreciate cooking.

Geralt heard footsteps tramp through the ferns next to the house, and Jaskier’s telltale humming accompanied it. He kicked the front door shut and headed towards Geralt.

“Look what I have!” The bard crowed triumphantly. He proudly displayed his catch: two rabbits and three pigeons. “Not that you’ll care for a while yet, but still! This is a good start.” Jaskier set the birds down on the table and smiled at Geralt as he noticed the waiting brine.

“Thank you, that’s helpful.” He grabbed up a knife and started in on the rabbits. His fingers were bloody from gutting and skinning them in the field, but he needed to quarter them if they were to fit in the bowl. 

Geralt grunted and reached for a pigeon, holding it by its feet and getting to work plucking it. The task was repetitive and easy, but helpful. The feathers floated around the kitchen.

“Couldn’t bother to do that out the window?” Jaskier complained, hacking away at the cony and plopping the meat into the brine water. Geralt blew a handful of feathers at him, and the bard laughed and tried to wave them off. One settled in his hair, unnoticed. Geralt hid a small smile. 

The birds were easy enough to strip down, but they still needed cleaning. He grabbed all three by the legs and slid in close to Jaskier as he finished up on the rabbits.

“These old conies are going to be chewy, I can already tell. They’re going to need to soak most the day.” 

Geralt shrugged, he didn’t mind tough meat, but Jaskier didn’t have the teeth he did. “I’ll do the birds,” he offered. At least they could be roasted sooner. One looked fairly young, and Jaskier could have it for a late breakfast. The other two could join the rabbits in the salt bath.

Jaskier stepped aside and to clean the blood off of his hands. Geralt picked a smaller knife and got to work on the birds, gutting them efficiently. He set the innards aside in a small pile. Trying his best not to burst a bladder or rip intestines. He hated the stink that permeated the meat when that happened.

Gentle hands settled on his hips and Geralt was thankful he was able to hear Jaskier before feeling him. It wasn’t a great idea to surprise a witcher with a knife in his hands. The bard set his chin on Geralt’s shoulder, reversing the position they were in the day before. The warmth against his back made Geralt’s eyelids flutter and he sighed as a sense of relief fell over him. He hadn’t noticed the rising tension- it wasn’t anywhere as painful as the day before. Jaskier hummed a soft tune by his ear as he worked.

He finished the third pigeon and placed the two oldest into the brine. The small pile of innards would have to be tossed. Jaskier didn’t like organ meat. Geralt plucked one of the small purple livers out of the pile, barely the size of the pad of his thumb, and popped it into his mouth.

Jaskier made a surprised noise and pulled away. “Are you hungry?” He asked, moving around to make eye contact. 

Geralt blinked at him and thought about it. “No,” he said, frowning. “Just don’t like waste.”

Jaskier nodded. “Okay, just checking.” He grabbed the young pigeon off the cutting board and began to tie it to a spit. Geralt expected Jaskier to react with absolute horror at him eating a raw chunk of meat, but he seemed almost put out. He tossed the rest of the innards out the kitchen window and washed his hands. 

It took a moment for Geralt to remember that hunger was a sign of the end of his heat. He topped off his mug with more ale and sat at the table, watching Jaskier cook his food. The smell didn’t make Geralt’s stomach rumble, so he certainly wasn’t finished with his heat. It was just bizarre that Jaskier reacted like that towards the possibility.

It only took a few moments for Jaskier to get back into his previous mood, rambling on about how he preferred birds to be cooked and how he really wished there was a proper oven here instead of just the fire. Geralt half-listened and responded monosyllabically when appropriate. His mind fixated on the fact that Jaskier had embraced him without being asked, and how nice that had felt. Maybe asking for some intimacy after their next fuck wouldn’t be too out of place. 

He’d told Jaskier he wanted to be held, but Jaskier had been doing the bare minimum, and yesterday was actively distancing himself. Now he pressed in close, unprompted. Maybe he was sniffing him, seeing if Geralt still gave off his sweet cedar smell.

“You’re thinking very loudly,” Jaskier said, turning the bird over the fire. “Care to share?”

Geralt shrugged, fighting a grimace. “Body is distracting me,” he muttered, drinking his ale. It wasn’t exactly a lie. Ever since Jaskier touched him his cock had been slowly hardening in interest. 

“You need my assistance now, or can you last through my meal?” Jaskier asked, pulling the spit off of the fire and checking the meat. Such a small bird didn’t take long. 

Geralt shifted in his chair, grunting in distaste at the wet squelch of gathering slick. That was one thing he would be very thankful not to experience again. “Go ahead and eat,” he relented. It wasn’t painful, yet. Just irritating. At least it was an improvement from yesterday.

“You’re my favorite,” Jaskier cooed, happily setting the roasted pigeon on a plate and sitting down across from him. “Some omegas I served were out to kill me, I swear. You’ve been very pleasant this entire time,” he said, pulling off a leg to pop the drumstick in his mouth, hissing at the heat. Jaskier never learned to wait when it came to food. Like most things, he dove in enthusiastically.

Geralt tried not to laugh at the ensuing blowing and flapping as Jaskier tried to cool the meat. Sometimes he was such an idiot, but Geralt even liked that about him.

“Oh my tongue,” he mourned, sticking it out. Geralt slid him what was left of his ale and Jaskier groaned a thanks as he gulped it. “Gods, you think I would figure not to take it out of the fire and put it right in my mouth.”

“You put an awful lot right in your mouth.”

Jaskier wagged his eyebrows at him and then carefully returned to his meal. “I didn’t hear any complaints, did I?” He said between bites. “In fact, I do believe I was receiving quite a few nice reviews in the form of ‘ah yes, mmmm’.” Jaskier moaned low and gravelly, obviously mocking him. Geralt should have been offended at the teasing, but his cock twitched instead.

“Eat your fucking food,” Geralt growled, glaring at the onslaught of glee on Jaskier’s face. 

Jaskier sucked a thigh bone into his mouth and made a show of cleaning it, releasing breathy moans. He was unbearable.

“I will flip this table,” Geralt warned, uselessly.

Jaskier picked at the breast, peeling off the meat and placing it on his tongue salaciously. He was thankfully quiet for a few minutes, continuously sending Geralt heated looks as he ate and licked his fingers clean. Geralt thought that would be the end of his cheeky replies, but of course he was wrong.

Jaskier’s meal was reduced to a pile of bones, and so was his fear of retaliation. “Flip the table? But Geralt,” Jaskier said, running his fingers over the tabletop and grinning at him knowingly, “I thought you loved this table. You were such a fan of it yesterday.” 

Geralt growled and stood. He didn’t quite flip the table, just shoved it to the side on his way to Jaskier. Jaskier didn’t even flinch as Geralt grabbed him about the waist, and laughed merrily as he was thrown over a shoulder. 

“Oh, you brute!” He shrieked, all bluster and no sincerity. “Are you going to have your way with me?” 

Geralt rolled his eyes and marched to the bedroom, tossing the bard down on the mattress so he bounced. “Yes,” he said, towing off his boots. “Yes, I am.”

Jaskier grinned and began to shimmy out his pants. “Oh, good!”

Geralt helped pull the pants off, kicking his own off of his ankles. Jaskier scrambled back to make room for him, but Geralt crawled up between his legs, pushing them apart.

“Oh,” Jaskier sighed as Geralt leaned in to lick a wet stripe up his hardening cock, “are you going to show me how good your mouth is?”

“Mmm,” Geralt muttered as he sucked Jaskier down.

Clever fingers stroked through Geralt’s hair and he groaned happily around the fattening prick in his mouth. Jaskier smelled good: musty and masculine and delicious. He swallowed around Jaskier and took him deep enough to bury his nose in the redolent hair at the base of his cock. An adoring moan came from the man under him, and Geralt felt his own cock pulse in interest. 

The slick he was producing dripped down his balls, and Geralt reached back to rub at his hole, teasing himself. It was easy to slip a finger in, so Geralt pressed two inside as far as he could. The need was growing into a roar, making Geralt twitch his hips at the stimulation. 

“Oh, you’re lovely. Your mouth is so good.” Jaskier shifted, propping himself up on his elbows. “Fuck, Geralt. Are you fingering yourself?”

He wasn’t about to nod with a cock in his mouth, so Geralt shot Jaskier an incredulous look. What did it look like he was doing?

The hand on his head pulled him off of Jaskier’s cock as the man surged upright. Jaskier wrenched at Geralt’s shoulders, trying to haul him further up on the bed. The witcher grunted in alarm and pulled his fingers loose to steady himself.

“Get up here, right now,” Jaskier demanded, using all of his weight to flip them over. “I need to be in you.” Geralt let himself be tossed down onto the mattress, huffing out a laugh as Jaskier scrambled over him, licking and biting at his neck and chest. He was nearly frantic, a low mumbling growl in this throat as he feasted on Geralt. 

“Now who is the brute?” He said, pleased by the enthusiasm.

“Me, it’s me, let me brutalize you,” Jaskier moaned, his hand slipping down to pull at Geralt’s hip. “On your belly.” 

Geralt hummed and turned over, arching his back and spreading his legs just to hear Jaskier curse. His smug attitude faltered when Jaskier buried his face in his ass, tongue hot and insistent against his hole. Jaskier licked at him desperately, coming up for quick breaths and dipping back down, his fingers joining his tongue. It sounded utterly filthy; wet and loud and obscene. 

Geralt pressed his face into the bed linens in order to muffle his pleading. He hitched his hips back against Jaskier’s face, loving the hard squeeze he earned from a hand cupping one cheek.

Jaskier withdrew with a near comical gasp, and shifted himself up onto his knees. Geralt barely had time to feel neglected when Jaskier pushed into him in one long slide. It forced a moan out of the both of them, and Jaskier settled his hips to Geralt’s ass, grinding down.

Geralt was pinned to the bed, but enjoyed the weight bearing down on him. Jaskier’s face, still wet with his slick, nuzzled into the back of his neck. He kept Geralt impaled and laid out for a moment, letting him accommodate the stretch. 

“You smell so good,” Jaskier said, his voice dazed and dreamy, as if Geralt was a delicious vintage of wine, and he was savoring the aroma before he partook. “I want to wear this scent on my skin forever.”

Geralt grumbled, pleased as Jaskier nipped and licked at him, but he needed movement. The ache was so close to being satisfied, and although he promised himself to let Jaskier direct their fucking, he wasn’t above forcing action.

With a grunt Geralt pushed up onto his knees, lifting Jaskier with him. The bard gasped in alarm and grabbed Geralt’s hips as they both got their knees under them. Up on all fours, it was easier to move back against him.

“Okay, okay- impatient minx,” Jaskier laughed, landing a playful smack to Geralt’s behind. “I’ll get on with it.”

The pace was immediately brilliant, steady and deep and just what he needed. Geralt hung his head and sighed in relief as his body calmed to the stimulation. He rocked back against the thrusts, not too hard as to throw Jaskier off, but just enough to show his own enthusiasm.

Jaskier was talking intermittently, sometimes clear, sometimes rubbish. He seemed a little more drunk on Geralt than the day before, and it made the witcher purr in pleasure. Jaskier’s breath was labored and his palms sweaty, and Geralt was doing that to him.

He didn’t feel the same frantic desperation he had earlier in his heat- the absurd confusion and strange muteness in the wake of his desires was gone. Now he just felt hot and good, tingling with satisfaction and the promise of eventual release. The slide of Jaskier’s cock was pleasurable without being overwhelming. 

At least, it was until the bard shifted on top of him, one arm dropping to prop him up against the bed, his bicep pressed to Geralt’s ribs. The change in balance let him plant a foot down instead of a knee and hoist himself further up, making the angle steeper. It only took one thrust for Geralt to realize what the adjustment had done. 

The stuttered moan he released ended in a keen, punched out of him but the hard rub against his abused prostate. The sensation lit up his spine and flared down his legs, almost as if it were more sensitive now at the end of his heat than it was at the start.

“Gorgeous,” Jaskier groaned, “I love hearing you. Tell me you want it. Again.” He threw his weight behind his thrusts. 

Geralt gasped and steadied himself. “Jaskier. Fuck, feels good.” Holding all of their weight on one arm, Geralt brought his other hand down to his cock, barely able to stroke himself without shaking.

Jaskier made an encouraging noise, fucking down into him at a faster pace, trying to wring more from Geralt. His breath was heaving and the smell of deep, delicious musk mixed in with the sweet cedar of Geralt’s heat. It was intoxicating, and Geralt’s instincts clung to it, loving the scent of sex and safety and satisfaction. The clarity he had was beginning to fuzz out as his orgasm built.

He blamed the heat, mostly, for what came out of his mouth. Drowning in the surge of hormones and enveloped in pleasure, Geralt clenched down on Jaskier, and moaned loud and desperate. 

“‘S good, Jask. Fuck. I need it,” he pleaded. “I need you to come in me.” He pushed back against the quickened thrusts, drinking up Jaskier’s responding gasps like they were a reward. He thought about the day before, about Jaskier filling him up, about breeding him. “I want it,” he said, “Want to be full. Want you.”

“Fuck,” Jaskier cried out, pulling breaths that were nearly sobs, “You’re perfect. I’m close, Geralt.”

“Good,” he said, bracing himself to better take the increasingly wild thrusts. Geralt shivered; he was doing that to Jaskier. He was the one bringing him to the edge. He owned Jaskier’s pleasure and was making him drunk on it. 

Jaskier bit at Geralt’s neck and shoulders, his breath a constant, rough moan. The stings of pain amplified the building ecstasy, and Geralt pushed back at the teeth that nipped him, encouraging. Jaskier took the bait, sinking his teeth into the meat of Geralt’s muscle that bridged his shoulder. 

The pain was a bright point, a burn and a shock and Geralt shouted, clamping down on the cock inside of him. Jaskier, with his teeth still stamping into the witcher’s skin, muffled a cry against him, and came. 

Geralt savored the feeling of Jaskier’s cock twitching inside of him, spilling hot and wet. The bard ground his hips against Geralt’s ass, then stilled, body trembling. He pulled his mouth from Geralt’s skin, leaving a lovely sting behind. 

Jaskier gasped desperate breaths against Geralt’s neck, his heart fluttering. Geralt tried to give the man some reprieve, but he had yet to come, and his body ached with it. He tried not to jostle Jaskier as he stroked himself, still relishing the fullness inside of him. It felt wonderful to clamp down, Jaskier’s cock still brilliantly hard, and he fell over the edge with a few quick pulls.

The duet of their labored breaths was the only noise in the room for a brief moment. Jaskier seemed dazed, and Geralt was barely better, satiated but still burning, a restless arousal rippling down his spine. He knew he needed to dislodge them- he could already feel his muscles desperately trying to clamp down on Jaskier, but the bard was draped over him like dead weight.

“Jaskier,” he rumbled, shimmying his shoulders to rouse the man, “alive?”

Jaskier sighed and shifted, separating their backs that had been near pasted together with sweat. He then made to sit back and Geralt felt a  _ tug- _ at first pleasant, but then very much not so. He grunted in pain and Jaskier was up against him once again, his hands suddenly too tight on Geralt’s hips.

With Jaskier pressed in close, the discomfort abated, replaced instead by a feeling of fullness. Geralt unconsciously clenched down on the cock inside of him and shuddered. It felt wonderful. He felt like he could come again.

He would have stayed in his euphoric stupor if not for the sudden, frantic heartbeat that echoed in the chest behind him.

“Oh,” Jaskier gasped, his voice thin and frightened, “oh gods, sweet fucking Freya what the fuck?”

The panic in his voice cut sharp through Geralt’s fog. “Jaskier?”

The hands on his hips released, grasped again, sweaty and nearly painful in their grip. “Geralt, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Both Jaskier’s voice and body were shaking, his breath was high and reedy. “I can’t believe this happened, fuck…”

Jaskier’s panic made Geralt desperate to turn about and check on him, but the bard was holding him in place, rigid. He did manage to twist enough to catch a glimpse over his shoulder. “What’s wrong?” He asked, noticing the frightened paleness of Jaskier’s face. The bard was staring down in between them, looking as though he would burst into tears. “Are you hurt, Jaskier? Did I hurt you?”

Geralt felt his own worry chill his roaring blood, and he reached down to feel at where they were connected. Had he clamped down too hard and hurt him? 

There was barely any room to sneak his fingers between them to feel what was going on. Jaskier was still deep inside of him, nearly flush. His cock felt normal at the base, the same pleasing thickness it was before, but when Geralt leaned away from him to see if he could gently dislodge Jaskier, Geralt felt it get much thicker, thicker to the point where it painfully stretched his ass. 

Fuck. That wasn’t just Geralt clamping down on him, that was a knot. It had him well and plugged- part of Jaskier’s cock too big to comfortably pull free, and Geralt’s body locked tight and unforgiving around it.

“Ah, okay,” he said, trying not to jerk in alarm at how viscerally his heat reacted. His cock was already drooling onto the bed, defiant of the mood. “Fuck. Guess you have a new companion trick.”

Jaskier certainly didn’t find the statement amusing. The bard’s face crumpled dramatically and he began to cry. It wasn’t some soft, dainty weeping or the usual tears he shed in anger, but a terrified, shocked sobbing. It was so jarring that Geralt froze in place, stuck on his knees and barely able to watch over his shoulder as his friend literally devolved into hysterical weeping.

It took the feeling of tears raining down onto the small of his back to snap him out of it. Finally, Geralt’s erection began to give up.

“Jaskier,” Geralt muttered, confused, “calm down- it’s okay.”

Jaskier shook his head, eyes pinched shut. “I’m so sorry, Geralt. I didn’t mean to.”

Of course he hadn’t. Jaskier hadn’t knotted before, he’d said so several times. It must have been a bit alarming for him to be tied together like this. “It’s fine,” Geralt reassured, shifting a little on his knees to push snugly against him. “It’s… it feels good.”

That was also unhelpful, as it made Jaskier sob loudly and bow his head. Something must be very wrong, Geralt just didn’t know what it was.

“Jaskier, am I hurting you?”

“No.” His voice was watery, but not in pain. “No.”

Geralt sniffed carefully, trying to parse out any scents that didn’t belong. Almost immediately he noticed the sour smell of fear. It didn’t make sense. 

Locked together as they were, Geralt was unable to move around to investigate. Eventually these knots went down, so he would have to wait. 

“Jaskier, listen to me,” Geralt said, bringing a hand back to cover the one his hip. “We’re going to lay down.” He lowered himself slowly, pulling a whimpering Jaskier along. He was, unfortunately, now laying in a puddle of his own cum, but that was a concession he was willing to make. 

Now laying heavily across Geralt’s back, Jaskier hid himself in between the witcher’s shoulder blades, wiping his tear-wet face on his skin. Geralt’s hips were canted awkwardly so that the knot didn’t pull at him, but it was a much better position than before.

Geralt held the hand under his, bringing it up to his face to kiss the palm of it. Jaskier’s fingers twitched. His heart was still far too fast, and the stink of fear was disturbing.

“Calm down, Jask,” he said, entwining their fingers. “Calm down.”

Jaskier nodded and drew several deep, quivering breaths. Geralt wasn’t very good at soothing people. His rough voice and surly demeanor were not reassuring to most people. He mostly calmed Jaskier by giving him a drink or just letting him wear himself out. Jaskier burned bright and fast, and his moods, although intense, didn’t have the momentum in them to last for long stretches. 

So, Geralt simply held his hand and waited, pressing dry lips to the bard’s knuckles every few breaths, counting his heartbeats so see how they slowed. The fear scent lessened, but it didn’t abate, and Geralt fought the urge to mutter the same reassurances he did to Roach when she was shaken.

The change in mood came in a slightly messy way. Jaskier shifted on top of him, just a small movement, and Geralt felt something slip out of him with a wet slurp. He grimaced and fought the urge to reach back. He’d need a towel eventually, because that was an awful lot of cum leaking out.

Now freed, Jaskier made to get up, tugging his hand away and getting to his knees. Geralt wouldn’t allow it. A man didn’t just come in your ass, knot you, cry all over you, and then flee. 

“No, you don’t. Come here.”

He caught Jaskier about the waist and pulled him back, shifting so that they fell side by side. The bard made a noise of protest and tried to twist away, but Geralt let his strength be felt in his grip. Jaskier relented, his face pinched with worry. 

“I just… please,” Jaskier closed his eyes tight, “I need…”

Geralt grumbled and put a hand on the back of Jaskier’s head, convincing him to tuck in under his chin, letting the bard hide. It would be easier to talk this way, and they really needed to talk. 

“Tell me what happened, Jaskier. Tell me why it was bad for you.”

Jaskier groaned in despair, and Geralt ran his hand down Jaskier’s back. Jaskier didn’t move to hold him back, and kept his arms tucked up against his chest.

“Geralt,” he said. “Betas don’t knot…”

“I think we disproved that.”

“I mean, they only knot under special circumstances.” 

The smell of fear spiked again, and Geralt frowned into Jaskier’s hair. He hated that smell on his friend. It felt like a failure on his part. “Okay,” he said, slowly. “What are those?”

Jaskier sniffled, and the smell of saltwater returning as new tears formed. “A beta has to be bonded to an omega to knot them. They have to be a mated pair.”

Geralt’s hand paused in the middle of Jaskier’s back. He felt the bard flinch as he stilled. Jaskier made a weak noise and tried to wriggle away, but Geralt kept his arm firm, holding him in place. 

He needed a moment to process that. Geralt knew mate bonds were chemical and long term. He could tell when a couple was bonded- their scents were connected to each other. They were marked in a way most humans sensed as subtle, but to a witcher it was very obvious; they belonged to one another. There also was the matter that in many places, a mate bond was a form of marriage.

Geralt stared at the top of Jaskier’s head. The fear made sense, now. 

“We bonded on accident?” He asked, trying not to let his surprise show. He didn’t feel any different, and they were too close for him to note it their scents changed. Jaskier nodded, his face still hidden.

Geralt scowled and grumbled. Against him, Jaskier let loose another small sob. Of course Jaskier was upset; why wouldn’t he be? Anyone would be horrified to accidentally marry someone, but accidentally marrying a witcher? Many people would call that a nightmare. 

Jaskier wasn’t the mated sort. He was a gigolo, a tomcat, frankly- a slut. He was not a man to settle down in any sense of the word, and with Geralt of all people? Geralt, who disappeared for months on end, who could die any day of the week, who didn’t really understand Jaskier’s songs and often didn’t know how to interact with Jaskier’s social circle. Geralt, who hated the parties Jaskier loved, who refused to dress up, who grumbled and growled and was always making the worst impression. He would be a terrible fit as… Jaskier’s mate.

Geralt tried his best to ignore the hurt that revelation caused. It wasn’t as if it had ever been an option for him- it wasn’t as if he had been robbed of something. It was never meant for him. 

“Jaskier,” he said, calmly as he could. “Can you break those bonds?”

Two hands pushed hard against his chest, and Jaskier put space between them. He wiped furiously at his eyes, his lips drawn in a tight line. “Yes,” Jaskier said, his voice weak. “It’s not pleasant but of course we can break it.”

Geralt took a deep breath, trying to relax. The salt of Jaskier’s tears, the sour stink of fear, and the heavy musk of sex were nearly overpowering- but under it was the strange, dusty smell of sadness. 

Jaskier was finally looking at him. The blue of his eyes stood out vividly against the red rims of his eyelids.

He looked devastated. 

Geralt nearly flinched. “What?”

“If you want to break it, we will.”

If he wanted to? Why did that matter? Jaskier bonded to him by accident, and proceeded to cry about it. Why did it matter if Geralt wanted it when Jaskier obviously didn’t? 

Unless he did.

“Do  _ you _ want to break it?” Geralt asked, confused.

Jaskier rolled onto his back, and Geralt let him, his arm still draped over his middle. He stared at the ceiling. Geralt could hear his heartbeat quicken again.

“I’m so sorry,” he began, which wasn’t an answer to Geralt’s question at all. “We shouldn’t have done this. I should have left you here when I knew you were going into heat.”

Geralt struggled to keep his face neutral, knowing he was failing. Hearing that shouldn’t have cut him. It shouldn’t make him want to grab at Jaskier, demanding he recant. 

“You helped me,” he said instead.

Jaskier barked out a humorless laugh, blinking frantically to keep his tears at bay. “You think so kindly of me. I’m sorry, Geralt. I stayed because I wanted to sleep with you.”

There was no reason to be sorry for something like that. It wasn’t as if Geralt hadn’t wanted it. He’d peeped at Jaskier fucking and was hot and bothered enough by it to spur a latent puberty. It wasn’t shameful to want to sleep with someone, even if that person was your friend.

“I wanted it,” Geralt said.

Jaskier shook his head. “You wanted a heat companion, someone you trusted to take care of you- and look at what I’ve done.” He gestured uselessly to the ceiling, nearly slapping Geralt beside him. “I’ve made a mess out of it.”

“I wouldn’t have trusted someone else to take care of me.” Jaskier wasn’t a whore he bought for an hour, but a partner and friend he trusted to see him at his worst. 

“I’ve failed you, Geralt. I knew I was sympathy rutting. I knew I was getting more worked up than I should.” The pause the night before made much more sense, now. Jaskier’s quick flip in mood, his spur in arousal, the increasing musk of his scent. “But you smelled so good, and I wanted you. I knew it was dangerous, but I bit back the worst of my urges and kept on anyway.”

Geralt didn’t understand. “Why does it matter?”

Jaskier rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes. “My rutting- the biting, the scenting- it spurred bonding hormones. Those hormones make it easy to manipulate an omega in heat. I imprinted on you. You and I wouldn’t be bonded if I had just denied you.”

Geralt scoffed before he could help himself. “My hormones made you go into a rut. Technically, this is my fault.”

Jaskier whipped his hands off his face, turning to look at him for the first time in several minutes. “Geralt,” he snapped, irritable and almost like himself again, “a bond attaches you to me, me to you. I’ll be able to understand you easier, sync with your Season-cycle, and it’ll be apparent to any alpha that you’re not to be touched. I basically just marked you as my territory, and I did it without your consent. That’s a literal crime.”

He tried to see it that way, tried to imagine Jaskier forcing him into it- but a man who forced a mating bond didn’t burst into hysterical tears after doing it. Jaskier had been just as surprised as Geralt.

Was he bothered by the idea that an alpha wouldn’t pester him? Absolutely not. Saved him trouble. Did it bother him Jaskier would be more in tune with him? No- that made life a bit easier when it was hard to put words to what he wanted. Would he be bothered if they continued their sexual relationship? Absolutely not. That would be… nice.

Was it disturbing that Jaskier marked him as his “territory”? Not precisely. It even made Geralt feel valued. Wanted. And the fact that Geralt would then be claiming Jaskier in return? Well, that was a pleasant thought, indeed. 

“You’re fine,” Geralt said, shrugging. He couldn’t exactly find a negative that justified Jaskier’s horror.“I’m not angry about it.” 

Jaskier laughed again, this time it was incredulous and a bit panicked. He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. “I’m so stupid,” he said. “Why did I think I could casually help you through a heat? I jumped into bed with you because I wanted to, and fucked it all up. I let my prick ruin my reasoning.”

It wouldn’t have been the first time, Geralt thought. He wasn’t exactly much better- literally yelling at his friend and demanding sex and attention when he learned he was going into an unwelcome estrus. Still, something wasn’t adding up in all of this, and it was the pall of sadness over the entire conversation. Jaskier wasn’t just afraid and upset, he was sad. Geralt knew the scent very well; it rolled off the bard when he had his heart trampled on by some careless suitor, when he sang songs about their leaving. This smelled the same. Like heartbreak. 

“What aren’t you saying?” Geralt asked, tightening his hold around Jaskier’s waist. The movement startled the bard into opening his eyes. “You talk so much, but you’re not telling me something.” 

Jaskier opened and closed his mouth like a landed fish, caught off guard. He sputtered and tried to turn away again, but Geralt brought a hand to his cheek, held him steady.

“You’re sad,” he said, “you’re upset you’re mated to me, but when I suggested breaking it you became even worse. Why?” Jaskier flinched and Geralt could tell he was going to deflect, talk about something useless and trivial. He wasn’t above playing dirty. “Jaskier, you owe me the truth.”

That seemed to be it, the final nail to drive in. Jaskier didn’t fight the tears that welled up, didn’t wail or even whimper, just nodded and spoke. “I wasn’t crying because I didn’t want the bond. I was scared. I  _ am _ scared.”

“Why?”

“I’ve taken too many risks with you, Geralt, and this bonding? It’s a death knell.” Jaskier shuddered under his palm, and Geralt felt the echo of it ripple through himself. “Mated couples break their bond by separating. Permanently.” He took a shaking breath, swallowing down a sob so he could speak. “I just gave you the best reason on the Continent to leave me. I gave you a literal ultimatum, and it happened because I couldn’t control myself. Because I couldn’t turn away from something I wanted.”

Oh, that was a good reason to be upset. Even hearing it made Geralt’s own heart rate increase, tightened his chest and strained his breath. Permanent separation? They couldn’t be near one another ever again? Not even if Geralt never had another heat? Not even if they didn’t see one another during the Season? Not even if they never touched, never kissed, never fucked again? They still would be bonded by mere proximity. 

He tried to think on what he would do if there were no more Jaskier. No one to get them into ridiculous trouble, to sneak Roach apples, to comically scream at drowners, to sing a song ten times over, implanting it in his head for weeks. No one to massage his aches, to sew his wounds, to wash his hair, to defend his honor when a drunk yelled obscenities at him. No one to make him laugh on a dismal day, to tease him, to praise him, to warmly call him “my dear witcher” and mean it. No one to sleep next to, no one to take care of, no one to keep warm, no one to protect. No one for him. No Jaskier.

“Geralt?” Jaskier asked, disturbed by his silence. His tentative fingers brushed the witcher’s chest. 

He didn’t want that life. He’d lived it before- a life alone and hated, a life with few friends and fewer lovers. A painful life without laughter or companionship or a sense of belonging. 

And all he had to do to keep Jaskier was stay? 

He reigned in his wandering mind, cupping Jaskier’s jaw to hold him there. “Do you love me?”

Jaskier quailed, sputtering. “That’s not an excuse for what I did,” he said. “Gods, it makes it worse.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt rumbled, lifting himself up to lean over him, to pin him there until he had an answer. He needed the truth. “Do you love me?”

Jaskier closed his eyes, as if he were expecting a blow. “Yes.”

He felt like he’d taken a drink of White Honey, banishing the poisonous things that ripped through him, leaving him clean and whole again. Jaskier loved him. 

Geralt leaned down and kissed him, treasuring the warmth against this lips, the breath and movement of someone who wanted him. Someone who loved him. Jaskier made a confused mewl into his mouth, and Geralt pulled away enough to look at him.

“I’m not angry,” he said, brushing his thumb across Jaskier’s cheek, shifting to cover part of Jaskier’s body with his own. “I want that. I want your love.” 

Jaskier’s hands flew up to grab at him, one against his ribs and the other on the side of his neck, fingers pressed to the bitten bruises he’d left. Geralt growled and dipped down again, kissing Jaskier before he could speak, before he could question him.

The need for contact, the want for touch, it made so much more sense to Geralt, now. Part of him had known Jaskier loved him, and wanted it. He wanted to horde it the same way he did all of his praises, all of his affectations. It tingled through his chest, made him drunk. 

Below him, Jaskier relaxed and opened, the scent of his sadness and fear dissipating, chased away by satisfaction, by adoration and lust. Geralt licked into his mouth, bit gently at his lips, offered everything he had in return.

“I want it,” he sighed into Jaskier’s neck, nipping him coyly. He threw his leg over Jaskier’s hips and loomed over him. Geralt caught the plaintive moans that left Jaskier’s lips, stole them for himself. “I want your love.” He moved down against him, kindling the fire between them. “Love me again, Jaskier.”

  
  


* * *

It was evening when Geralt came to out of his nap, body sore and used, smelling of sweat and sex and Jaskier. 

Jaskier. He grumbled and looked about the room, finding it empty. No Jaskier. A prickle of alarm had Geralt up and wandering about the home, searching. There was no sign of Jaskier in the house, and Geralt felt ill when he couldn’t even spot his lute.

He couldn't have just left. 

Geralt had his hand on the front door when he heard the gentle plucking of strings beyond it. He let out the breath trapped in his chest, and stepped out into the yard.

Jaskier wasn’t in sight, but Geralt could hear him playing soft scales somewhere on the far side of the stable. Roach was grazing there, her ears pricked and listening as the bard talked to her.

It wasn’t that Geralt meant to eavesdrop, it was just that he wasn’t in line of sight and his hearing was keen enough to hear Jaskier’s conversation.

“I’m delusional, Roach,” he said. Roach snorted and ripped a mouthful of grass. “I mean, I know it’s… Don’t get me wrong: it’s been beautiful- he let me hold him, kiss him. He wanted me to and I got so scared I’d give it away.” There is a scoff of a laugh from Jaskier. “My cock up and foiled me anyway, the menace.”

Roach gave him a critical look as she chewed. She hadn’t yet looked at Geralt and given him away. Good horse. 

“Melitile,” Jaskier sighed. “I would keep him like this forever, but it’s just the season. It makes you want those things.” There was a soft thunk, and Geralt imagined Jaskier throwing his head back against the wood wall in exasperation. “Don’t get me wrong. I’ll love him even if he never touches me again, if he just keeps me near. I’ve been fine for a decade, what’s a lifetime?” A rueful laugh bubbled out of Jaskier. He stopped plucking his lute. “But what a way for me to confess! I am a tragedy.” A hiccup. The smell of sea water. A disdainful sniff. “Figures my own love story ended up such a ruin.”

Geralt frowned, moving around the corner of the stable so Jaskier could see him. “I didn’t think it was that bad.”

Jaskier yelped, jerking in surprise from where he was sitting, his back against the wall and lute on his lap. “Don’t just-” he sputtered, “fuck Geralt, my poor heart!” He pressed a hand to his chest dramatically. 

Roach nickered and bumped Geralt with her nose. Jaskier gasped in scandal.

“You terrible horse, you knew he was there, didn’t you?” Roach gave Jaskier an unimpressed looked. “Traitor,” he muttered sullenly.

“Come inside,” Geralt said. 

“You look ridiculous,” Jaskier griped, wounded by Geralt’s eavesdropping and Roach’s betrayal. “You can’t just wander around outside naked, Geralt, no matter how lovely your physique.”

The witcher rolled his eyes and kneeled down, scooping Jaskier up, lute and all.

“What are you?—” He squeaked, indignant as Geralt turned and walked towards the house, Jaskier red-faced and wriggling. “Geralt, this is embarrassing.”

“Mmhm,” Geralt agreed. 

He set Jaskier down once they were inside, and the bard stomped over to put away his lute. He huffed irritably and dusted himself off, as if he hadn’t just been sitting on the ground of his own volition. Geralt felt a smile tic at his lips; Jaskier’s petulance was amusing. 

He went after him quietly, teasingly enjoying the way Jaskier jumped yet again as he turned back around. 

“Stop following me!” He said, exasperated. Geralt crowded in, successfully herding Jaskier to the cradle of the nice chair in the main room, and gently pushed him down in it.

“I will not,” Geral rumbled, kneeling down and leaning in, just at the right height to press his face into Jaskier’s chest. The bard made a strained noise and set his hands on Geralt’s shoulders. Geralt looked up at him. “I thought I was clear about that earlier.”

“What?” Jaskier asked, leaning back in the chair. 

“I won’t be leaving you.”

Jaskier winced and looked away from him, as if Geralt’s promise was wounding. Geralt was at a loss. He had to convince him. 

Suddenly, something occurred to Geralt, something he’d failed to notice in his need to find Jaskier. The witcher trapped Jaskier’s face in his hands, victorious. 

“You’re wrong, Jaskier.”

Even held as he was, Jaskier tried to shake his head. “No. I’ve seen it before. You’re full of hormones.” He was fighting tears again. How much could he possibly have in him? “Heats want a bond, Geralt. They want a mate and they make you desperate for love. It isn’t,” he stopped, bit at his lip as he struggled to get it out, “this isn’t how you’ll feel tomorrow.”

Geralt could be just as stubborn, just as determined as Jaskier ever was. He would not back down from this. Jaskier was wrong, and he needed to understand. “It is,” he insisted. He wanted Jaskier’s love. He would always want it. Tomorrow he would feel the same warmth he did at this moment, staring into the blue he’d come to covet.“Jaskier, it is. I will. I do.”

Jaskier whined, looking like he was being skinned alive by the words- in pain at their perceived falsehood, but desperate to hear them. Geralt had to make him listen. He had to understand.

Geralt knew the heat had nothing to do with his affection, with his acceptance and desire to be loved.

“Jaskier,” he explained, “I’m  _ hungry _ .”

  
  


* * *

Although Geralt was hard to move, and Jaskier was struggling to absorb the revelation, his practical instincts kicked in and they both ended up in the kitchen. 

At Jaskier’s demand, Geralt put on clothing. One shouldn’t cook naked. The fire was high and hot and Jaskier put the rabbits to a boil, tossing in what he could to flavor them. Geralt didn’t allow enough time to cook the pigeons. Once he noticed his hunger, it was intense to the point of pain. He snatched up both of the birds and sat at the table, crunching them down, bones and all. 

Jaskier gagged comically, but didn’t harangue him for it. By the time he wolfed down both birds, the pain of hunger softened to an acceptable ache. He would be able to wait on the rabbits.

The watery ale was still available, but it wasn’t the most pleasant of drinks. Jaskier cut the last hunk of cheese up for them, setting it on the table.

“I wish we had some wine,” he mourned. “I drank everything they had. Piss poor stock for a larder.”

It was then that Geralt remembered his bonus payment from Marla. He’d wrapped the bottle away in his bag and not thought about it since. 

“One of Marla’s?” Jaskier asked, as Geralt handed it over. He held the bottle up to the light, peering at the liquid through the dark glass. 

“It’s thistle mead,” Geralt said, grabbing two mismatched goblets as Jaskier worked the corkscrew. 

“I’ve never had thistle mead before, I think.” Jaskier poured for them both. The mead was surprisingly light in color, the tint of sun-dried hay. The smell of it was a barrage of flora and honey, with a strange dark undercurrent. 

Jaskier handed him his goblet, offering his own in a toast. They tasted it in unison.

It started sweet, the way every mead did, sugary from the honey— but then the taste transformed, moved into shadow. It conjured memories of a dark wood, of peat moss and wet bark, of spice and sumac. It was rich as the earth after a rain, yet dry and sharp. Different, but delicious. 

“Oh,” Jaskier sighed, gazing down into his goblet. “That was unexpected.” He swirled the honey wine and breathed its aroma. “That’s lovely. There’s so much to it, and you wouldn’t think all of it would come from something as prickly and awful as a thistle.” He smiled up at Geralt. “Thank you for sharing it with me.”

Geralt hummed and leaned in, kissing Jaskier gently. The bard sighed and brought a slender hand up to his cheek, stroking it. Geralt opened his mouth, welcoming Jaskier to come further. 

There was a small laugh and Jaskier retreated, eyes amused. “No offense Geralt, but you taste like pigeon blood.”

Geralt struggled not to laugh as he took another swig of mead, rinsing his mouth thoroughly before swallowing. He leaned in again, offering another taste.

“Was that better?” He asked when they broke apart.

Jaskier smiled, the gentle wrinkles at the corner of his eyes creasing in his mirth. “Much,” he assured. 

* * *

  
  


The coney would take an hour or so more to be ready, and Geralt had already eaten everything available in the kitchen. With his heat broken he was now very aware of his state of cleanliness. He smelled ripe, and that was a kind description. He didn't have enough energy to pull a bath, but Jaskier had already washed up with a bucket and soap out at the well, so Geralt followed suit. 

The witcher upended one bucket over his head and scrubbed himself down, not caring that the water was cold. Roach had put herself back into the stable and was dozing off in the straw. She would get a rude awakening tomorrow when he saddled her up to leave. 

They would need to tidy the house somewhat, first- make it not look like two random men spent nearly a week having sex everywhere they could in it. He doubted the employer would notice, and like Jaskier had suggested, they could just blame it on the ghost. 

Geralt rinsed off with another bucket, shaking his head like a dog. Fuck, it was a relief to feel normal again. He was tired without feeling drained, he had the normal aches instead of the strange hollow pain his heat brought, and he wanted to be near Jaskier because he liked him, not because he wanted something from him. 

He went back into the house, redressed and rolled some clothes into his bags. The bedroom was shockingly odorous, and Geralt eyed the bed linens. He doubted those could be saved. Jaskier had found a spare set, and Geralt ripped off the offensive bedclothes, replacing them. There was a small amount of tension in Geralt knowing that when they shared again tonight, it would be without the spell of their hormones between them. Geralt’s heat was over, Jaskier’s sympathy rutting would be gone as well. 

They would just be themselves. 

Jaskier was still his friend, and now he was something more than that, something deeper and more entwined. Something just for Geralt to have, to keep for himself. 

He wandered back to the kitchen, his stomach leading him with a rumbling protest. He stopped at the door. It was dark outside now, and Jaskier hadn’t lit any candles, only using the cook fire to light the room. He bustled around in his nice clothing, trying his best to keep clean as he made their food. Geralt felt a warm bloom in his chest as he watched him approach the fire and check the pot, singing something low and slow and sweet to himself.

“Jaskier,” Geralt called out, still standing in the doorway. The man turned, his eyebrows raised curiously. He had a plate in his hand, and was attempting to stab some of the meat out for Geralt to eat. His hair was getting too long and curled at the base of his neck, and he needed a shave. The light of the kitchen fire cast him in a strange halo. He was perfect, and Geralt loved him. 

He told him so.

“Oh,” Jaskier said, quiet and surprised, “are you…”

Geralt didn’t want him to finish that question. He was sure. Now that he recognized it, that he’d tasted and felt it mirrored back to him, he was so very sure. 

Jaskier muttered nonsense against his lips and Geralt kissed him, then he shoved the hard edge of the plate into his chest.

“Eat your food, Geralt,” he said, trying to deflect him. Geralt snatched the plate away and grinned when he saw how much meat was stacked on it.

“You really do love me,” the witcher teased.

“Of course I do,” Jaskier griped, pushing away and taking a seat at the table, kicking a chair out for Geralt next to him. The soft expression he wore took all the prickliness out of it. Geralt settled down and ate his fill.

* * *

Jaskier was blatantly yawning by the time Geralt finished off the rabbits, only leaving a small portion of the leftover hardtack for their breakfast. It was well into the night, and they readied for bed. Jaskier packed some of his bag, donned a nightshirt and groaned in appreciation at the fresh linens as he lay down. 

They lay side by side, but Geralt caved into his desire immediately, turning to drape a heavy arm over Jaskier and pull him in close. He buried his nose in the soft hair of his temple and sighed.

Jaskier’s fingers traced up his arm and stopped to gently pet at the place he’d marked Geralt earlier that day. The bruise was nearly gone, but it hardly mattered. The real mark he’d left was invisible, and would not fade. He brushed his touch down again, a light and affectionate caress, and Geralt rumbled in pleasure. He kissed Jaskier’s ear.

“Would you like anything, tonight?” Jaskier asked, voice light and carefree, but Gerat heard the implication under it. He didn’t need Jaskier to pleasure him every time he was laying down, as pleasant as the thought was.

“Want this,” Geralt muttered, giving Jaskier a squeeze. “Tired. We have plenty of time to fuck later.” 

They had all their lives, in fact.

Jaskier hummed happily and turned his head far enough to land a kiss on the corner of his mouth. Something funny must have occurred to him, because there was a small puff of laughter against Geralt’s cheek.

“I just realized this means I am retired,” he said, amused. Geralt made a questioning noise and Jaskier continued. “No one wants a  _ bonded _ escort. I’ll have to announce my retirement from Seasonal companionship,” he opined jokingly. “There will be much weeping, but I think they may survive, especially when they see who I’m spending it with.”

Geralt snorted an incredulous laugh into Jaskier’s hair.

“I’m serious,” he said. “You are quite the specimen, and I will be the envy of all. What a gorgeous man, they’ll all say. Of course, many are going to assume you’re my alpha, but we can let them have their salacious fantasies.”

Geralt shook his head at Jaskier’s flippancy. It would be much more complicated than that, announcing they were bonded, but he was hardly afraid of the obstacles. Only one thing in particular stood out to him.

“It may not happen again, Jaskier. My heat,” Geralt said. It had come to him 50 years late, who was to say it would ever come again? Could Jaskier accept that, possibly not having this again?

Jaskier shifted, turning in towards Geralt and snuggling in close, touching their noses in an offensively affectionate way. In the dark, Geralt could see him smiling, full and unhindered.

“I know. That doesn’t mean we can’t spend our Seasons pretending, does it?”

Geralt didn’t see why not.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it’s done! The longest fic I have ever written, finished. I hope you liked it, and I hope it satisfied you.Thank you for all of my commenters- you don’t know how you help with keeping something like this rolling.
> 
> A special shout out to my writing discord, Bards of Geraskier. You dirty fucks are perfect and I love you all. 
> 
> If you want to pester me on discord, I’m Darcy#5763  
> Twitter is FennDarcy
> 
> Thank you. Treat yourself well.


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